The Other Side of Darkness
by Inhoe Publishing
Summary: McCoy couldn't imagine what it was like to die a painful death from radiation then resurrect from it…to face the irrefutable fact that he wasn't infallible after all. How did McCoy come to resurrect Kirk and what was Spock's role? 1 of 11 chapters that explores the emotional and physical ramifications of what Kirk, Spock and McCoy experienced.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Spock could not look away from the man cocooned in the cryotube. By all accepted criteria, he was dead. Jim Kirk's eyes were closed, no longer open, dull and unseeing. His face was relaxed into a gentle sculpture, free of the pain and despair that had rippled through the youthful features only minutes before he had drawn his final breath.

Rigid and unmoving, the Vulcan stood by the cryotube, a cross between a sentinel and a shomer. He did not allow himself to think …to hope. Looking down at the motionless figure, he could convince himself only too easily that Kirk was sleeping.

"I want a full platelet draw," McCoy ordered tersely. "As much as you can pull."

Enterprise's Sickbay filled with the hum of medical personnel rushing from station to station. Most of the wounded had been moved into another section to accommodate the additional staff that crowded into the main bay. There was an intense urgency in the air that seemed to electrify the room. At the center of all activities was Khan, unconscious and securely strapped to a gurney.

All of this went on without Spock's notice.

"Is this going to work?"

The sound of Uhura's soft and uncertain voice did not distract him. He felt himself retreating into the core of his Vulcan heritage, centuries of mental endurance and unyielding discipline that was Vulcan.

"Spock?" Her hand rested lightly on his arm.

He deepened his resolve, refusing her comfort. Kirk, who now consumed his attention, had also inspired his rage toward Khan. Not since Nero had he felt such unbridled fury, and even that time it had seemed as if his anger was a misdirected attempt to divert the pain of his mother's death, rather than the single-minded pursuit to end a man's life…the very man for whom he had recently argued leniency.

He shifted his gaze to Khan and felt the cold stirring deep within.

_"You…you can't even break a rule. How can you be expected to break bone?"_

But he had broken bone. It had felt alarmingly satisfying to smash his fist into Khan's face, to punish the man who had caused him so much pain. How he had wanted only to crush the life out of the man, to see his eyes light with fear then dull to nothingness. He wanted Khan to know who had extinguished his life…and why.

Savagery?

Vulcans had almost annihilated themselves because of their savagery. Warriors bred for conquering. That ancient drive was still part of them, buried deep beneath the discipline of Kohlinar.

"Start a central line," McCoy ordered.

Medical staff worked feverishly, syphoning blood from the still form like hungry parasites. It was satisfying seeing the man who had announced that he was better at everything now reduced to this: A means to an end.

The imposing figure now lay supine and artificially benign. McCoy had gone to great lengths to assure that Khan would not awaken. Still, four security guards remained in the room on Spock's orders.

McCoy stepped away from Khan and walked toward Spock. He looked like a condemned man – resigned, hostile. What they were doing was immoral and illegal. It defied the Hippocratic Oath and every law that governed civilized societies.

"We have to take him now," he said.

It was time.

* * *

StarfleetMedicalCenter was equipped with the most advanced medical technology available. It boasted the Federation's finest research departments and attracted physicians and scientists from the farthest reaches of the galaxy. It was a mecca of innovation and diagnostics with an impressive patient recovery rate. On any given day it tended and treated over three thousand patients. The most critical were assigned to the prestigious Intensive Care Unit.

The ICU was unnervingly void of human sounds. Beneath the steady thrum of medical technology was the faint murmur of voices conversing. Kirk had been removed from the cryotube in Enterprise Sickbay and given a vial of Khan's platelets. It had done as McCoy hoped. Fresh new platelets were reproducing at an astonishing rate, replacing the damaged ones within Kirk. As impossible as it seemed, against all medical reason, it had brought Kirk back from the dead, reviving his primary systems. Outside the protective covering of the cryotube, Kirk drew his first true breath.

A beginning hint of color tinted his pale face just before his organs began to fail. The lethal amount of radiation he had sustained had absorbed into every cell, poisoning his blood, quickly destroying his liver, kidneys. Even Khan's genetically enhanced platelets couldn't reverse the damage quickly enough to keep the radiation from affecting Kirk's respiratory system. Within an hour of the first small injection, Kirk's primary systems had begun to fail. McCoy was forced to put him on by-pass and full respiratory support to keep him alive.

"Doctor." The ICU nurse handed him a PADD.

"Damn it," he said under his breath, studying the readouts. Whatever was in Khan's blood, however it had been genetically modified, it had revived Kirk.

He was alive. It was the radiation that was killing him.

Out of the periphera of his vision, McCoy saw a figure move forward. Spock stood straight-backed with his arms to his sides, at attention and yet removed from the commotion of the ICU. His gaze was transfixed on Kirk who lay frighteningly still. The respiratory support system was cumbersome and invasive, pumping oxygen into his still lungs through a tube inserted into his trachea.

"Why isn't it working?" Spock asked. His voice was low, almost guttural.

There was a primitive aura about Spock that made McCoy uncomfortable.

"He's alive. That's more than a miracle in and of itself," McCoy said carefully and stepped up to the bed on the opposite side of Spock to study his friend and patient. Jim looked small and vulnerable in a way McCoy had never seen. The intubation tube parted the pale lips, forcing a slight, even rise of his chest. Beneath the light-weight patient gown, tubes had been inserted into his chest, directing blood back into a complex and sophisticated by-pass system that was anchored just at the head of the bed.

Spock looked up at the diagnostic panel that displayed Kirk's vitals. "Doctor, he is dying."

"I know," he said so softly that only Vulcan ears could hear.

"Can you not use more of Khan's blood?"

He sighed heavily. "It's not that simple. The radiation has done substantial damage. It's still in Jim's blood and tissue, attacking every organ. We're trying to filter it out, but…."

But radiation caused blood to stop clotting. Patients died from internal hemorrhage, loss of neurological functions. He didn't have to tell Spock. Every Starfleet personnel knew radiation protocol.

"Then you must give him a total transfusion of Khan's whole blood."

McCoy stared at Spock. "Are you out of your Vulcan mind? Platelets are one thing; blood is another. Humans have to match blood type. Khan doesn't even have a blood type as we know it. I have no idea how his blood has been genetically modified and to what extent. If I give it to Jim it could kill him."

"Doctor, he is already dying."

Sometimes the simple, logical statements the Vulcan made were enough to make McCoy want to scream. He spun away from Spock and Kirk, wanting for the first time to be free of the decision only he could make. He was a physician first and foremost. He had taken a Hippocratic Oath to do no harm. Doctors are taught in med school to assess, to diagnose, to plan. It was better, they were told, to do nothing than to do harm.

But hadn't he already done harm? Jim had been dead, resting peacefully and out of pain. He had played God on a hunch and took the biggest gamble of his life. He had brought the young captain back to _this_.

He closed his eyes. Behind him were the taunting sounds of the respirator and by-pass machine, refusing him respite. The truth was, he didn't want Jim to die and he would do anything – moral or immoral – to give his friend a chance at life. That was all Jim ever needed – a slim margin to beat the odds.

_"I don't believe in no-win scenarios."_

Maybe McCoy didn't either.

He opened his eyes. "If I can synthesize a serum from Khan's blood, it might act as antigen." He turned back to his patient, knowing that the longshot was not going to be enough.

On the opposite side Spock stood, offering him no quarter.

He was going to have to give the transfusion.

* * *

It defied every protocol.

The medical staff had properly processed Khan's blood for transfusion. There was nothing unusual about its physical appearance and when they prepared to transfuse, it entered Kirk's veins in the usual manner.

McCoy stood near the bed and monitored the procedure that the nurses performed a dozen times each day. Their movements were practiced and fluid. In a matter of moments, Khan's blood was being pushed into Kirk.

The only sound in the room was the steady hum of the by-pass machine.

McCoy looked at Spock who was observing from the far corner of the room, out of the way of the medical staff. He was glad to have the Vulcan's company, even if it was silent. Medical science was all about waiting. There was nothing more for them to do for Jim but wait and see how his dying body handled the transfusion.

Still, it was difficult to watch the procedure. McCoy wondered how the cool, disciplined Vulcan mind interpreted the process. Was it a simple matter for him to separate his emotions from what he witnessed and focus on the procedure at hand? Or did he see what McCoy saw – the failing remains of a young man who had finally been broken?

He reluctantly shifted his gaze back to Kirk who lay supine on the bio-bed, bared to the waist to allow the medical staff full access to his body. His chest was covered with purple and red bruises, some from the beating Khan had delivered, some from whatever he'd gone through bringing the core back on line, and the rest from radiation exposure.

McCoy didn't need any high-tech medical device to tell him the radiation was killing his patient. With a sigh, he moved to the narrow console on the wall and began running a diagnostic on Khan's blood. He hadn't had the time he needed to study the man's blood on the Enterprise, but he had discovered enough about it to know of its rapid regenerative powers.

The scientists who had created Khan had come from a period on Earth known as the Eugenics War, when genetically engineered humans, originally altered to lead the planet out of war, took control of most of Earth, throwing it into a second Dark Age. Little if any records had been kept, and those that survived were quickly sealed.

Genetically modifying humans was strictly prohibited.

McCoy put the blood through the synthesizer. Now this 300 hundred year-old transformed blood was going to save Kirk…or kill him.

* * *

Spock watched McCoy out of the periphera of his vision. For all the doctor's emotional outbursts and colorful vernacular, he was an excellent physician and medical scientist. And…he cared deeply for Jim. He would find a way to bring Kirk back. They had already come this far. Spock would not contemplate failure.

He had already lost the Captain once.

_"I'm scared, Spock…help me not be." His face tightened with pain. "How do you choose not to feel?"_

What was he feeling now, Spock wondered? Was he lost in the darkness of unconsciousness? Was he suspended in that terrible empty place when death took him, feeling what Pike felt in his final moments? Was he in pain?

He studied the vitals readouts on the display. McCoy had promised him Kirk was too deeply unconscious to feel pain. The machines were keeping his body alive and the new blood promised a chance of restoration, a chance to heal the damage the radiation had done.

His gaze shifted to the motionless form, barely recognizable to him. Where the flesh was not discolored by bruising it was inhumanly pale. Kirk's red blood cells had all but been destroyed by the radiation, leaving him severely anemic.

The nurses tended his body; their attentions professional, their movements almost mechanical.

He did not like seeing his friend this way.

Jim would hate being this vulnerable – completely reliant on their care, on McCoy making the right decision that would determine his fate.

_"Come on, Spock. That's deep space!" Kirk was a live wire, energized with enthusiasm and confidence as they walked to Admiral Pike's office._

Spock recalled his captain's boyish eagerness that day, a man so completely certain of who he was and where he was going that he could not even contemplate being denied command of the Enterprise. And why should he? He was the youngest captain in Starfleet with the newest ship. He had received Starfleet's highest honor for saving Earth. He had been declared a hero by the Federation. Starfleet's best and brightest….

Spock took a few careful steps forward, moving toward the bed. The intravenous lines pushing blood into Kirk were of a higher gauge to speed the process. Still, the procedure would take hours. The question was: Could Kirk's body survive that long?


	2. Chapter 2 and 3

**Chapter Two**

"Doctor, his blood-pressure is dropping," the nurse said.

"Damn it, Jim," McCoy said under his breath, frowning at the display readout on the wall.

It had been two hours since they had completed the transfusion. They had taken him off bypass, allowing the purified blood to replace Kirk's irradiated blood. The display showed him free of radiation, though the damage had already been done. The decontamination process on Enterprise had effectively removed the external radiation, so there wasn't the concern of continuing exposure.

McCoy watched the display carefully. Radiation was not the issue.

Khan's blood had the ability to repair the damaged cells in Kirk's body, to restore the organs that were dying, in much the same way it had for the Tribble. But it could only do that if Kirk's body accepted the transfusion.

Kirk's body temperature rose a full degree.

The nurse looked at him expectantly. They both knew what it meant.

McCoy ordered a standard anti-rejection drug and walked to stand next to Spock, who had remained in his place in the corner of the room. "He's rejecting the transfusion."

To the Vulcan's eyes, little had changed.

"We'll see if medication will counter the reaction." He studied the Commander with a clinical eye. In the direst circumstances, the Vulcan always managed to present himself as composed and immaculate. Even returning from Kronos, Spock had appeared unscathed, unruffled, when Kirk had returned battered and bruised. But now, for the first time McCoy could remember, Spock looked…woeful. "You should get some rest, Spock."

Spock had no intention of leaving. Vulcans could manage weeks without sleeping if need be. And while he had taken a beating during the battle with Khan, he would not leave his friend under such uncertain circumstances.

"You know you're being illogical," McCoy said flatly and moved back to tend Kirk.

Illogical. The word echoed softly in Spock's mind. It was illogical to hunt a man down and kill him with bare hands for the simple pleasure of it. His entire life had been dedicated to mastering his emotions in favor of logic. Emotions were the breeding ground of wars, and the violent deaths of hundreds of millions of beings since the dawn of time. Logic moved cultures forward by devoting intellect to science and reason.

Logic had saved Vulcan from extinction hundreds of years ago; emotion had caused its destruction.

Still, at this moment, it was emotion that ruled Spock.

"_You used what he wanted against him…that was a nice move." Kirk's voice was weak and strained._

"_It is what you would have done."_

"_And this…this is what you would have done." His eyes were bright with pain and unguarded. "It's only logical, Spock."_

The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few…or the one. How was it possible that this human had been more Vulcan than he? Where did that leave him – half-Vulcan, half-Human? He was failing at both.

The medical staff's touch was impersonal as Kirk lay still beneath their ministrations. Again Spock wondered what Kirk was experiencing. Was he aware of the medical staff and the sterile surroundings? Did he feel confined by the medical equipment that anchored his body in place? Or did he feel disregarded?

Not for the first time, he wanted to touch Kirk to let him know he was not alone.

Illogical.

Yes, he was being illogical.

The medical staff was competent, and they needed a clear space to tend Kirk. Visitors were restricted in the ICU. There was no practical, logical purpose for him to be in the room, much less to keep vigil.

"_I want you to know…why I couldn't let you die…why I went back for you." Kirk struggled for each word, each breath._

"_Because you are my friend."_

Spock stepped out of the corner and walked to the bed. In a single, unapologetic move, he folded himself into the narrow chair and waited beside his friend.

McCoy said nothing as the First Officer sat in the chair. It was against regulations…and probably very un-Vulcan, if he thought about it. But then everything Spock had done in the past forty-eight hours had been very un-Vulcan to McCoy's way of thinking.

The nurse finished hanging the I.V. of anti-rejection medication. McCoy took the time to study Kirk's chart and make the notes required. There was no medical protocol for what they had done, so charting the progress was essential both for the health of his patient and for the future, if ever Starfleet chose to use that such as Khan's blood.

McCoy hadn't asked for authorization or special consideration from Starfleet Medical on whether to use the blood, but once he had committed his patient to the process, Medical had no choice but to allow him to follow through and complete the process. Still, when this was over and, hopefully, Jim was fully recovered, he had much for which to answer.

He closed his eyes for a moment to clear his thoughts. He couldn't think about repercussions. Jim's full recovery was all he wanted. There was enough misery to go around given Marcus's instigation of war against the Klingons, his personal agenda with Khan, and his intention to destroy Enterprise. The brass would be chewing on this one for months. McCoy foresaw endless hours of debriefing for them all.

_To hell with my career._

What was the point of being a doctor if he couldn't make a difference? He may have given up on his life when he joined Starfleet four years ago, but he had not given up on being a physician.

He had no intention of making friends with anyone the day he joined Starfleet. He'd only wanted to disappear. He'd figured it was just random luck that he'd taken a seat next to a young man who had innocently offered him comfort and shared his disconnection to the world. But now he believed it had been fate.

He scanned the display on the wall. Kirk's temperature had risen another degree.

What was it then that drew him to this man he had come to truly care for and count as a true friend?

"Doctor, the lab has a question," an intern said, stopping by the alcove unit.

McCoy nodded. The lab had Khan's blood and was working on a serum based on the tests he'd run on Enterprise. He set down the thin PADD and stepped out into the main area of the ICU. A familiar figure caught his attention.

"Mr. Scott," he said approaching the waiting man. "What brings you here?"

If Spock looked woeful to McCoy, than Scott looked positively heartbroken. The energy and drive had drained from the normally exuberant engineer, leaving him resigned.

"How is he doing?" Scott asked, inclining his head slightly toward the ICU units.

"Alive."

Scott nodded. There was nothing inscrutable about his features-the Scotsman wore his emotions plainly enough. A battle of guilt and anger played out across his face. "Can I see him?"

McCoy released a heavy breath. "No, I'm sorry."

He couldn't have the entire crew of the Enterprise filing in for a visit, though he understood their concern. Everyone wanted to see the Captain who had passionately offered his life to Marcus in exchange for that of his crew, and who had ultimately died so that they may live.

"Aye," Scott said softly. "I just…."

He studied Scott closely and couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. Scott had tried to stop Kirk from entering the warp core, and then was there to watch helplessly as Kirk lie dying, locked behind the chamber doors. It was Scott who had called McCoy and had escorted Kirk's body into Sickbay. Scott who had stood bereaved as he had unzipped the body bag.

Now Scott looked at him with eyes that pleaded and raged. "He went into that damn chamber knowing he could na' have made it."

What else was there to say? What does a person say about the man who had willingly given his life for yours? If Scott had stopped Kirk, then they would all be dead. It was left to those who had survived to wonder what might have been.

Scott shook his head and weariness settled on him. "I'm sorry. He matters, you know?"

"I know. We're doing everything we can."

Scott nodded and turned his face away. He looked…lost.

"Get some rest, Mr. Scott. You're not helping anybody by getting exhausted." He hesitated a moment. "I'll let you know if anything changes."

Scott left the ICU none the better for his visit.

What could McCoy do? He had no words of comfort for others…or himself. As a physician, he knew Kirk's odds weren't good. The damage from the radiation was bad enough, but now he was rejecting the very blood that was required to save him. If they couldn't get Kirk's body to accept the transfusion, he would die.

He stood behind the circulation desk and punched in the lab.

Kirk wasn't going to die.

McCoy wouldn't let him.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

"10cc of epinephrine!" McCoy ordered. "And get a cooling blanket on him."

Alarms sounded loudly as the nurses worked quickly to cover Kirk's feverish body with the cooling blanket. His temperature had soared to a dangerous level and the instruments showed his bronchial tubes were swelling shut. McCoy watched the EKG on the medical display. It showed dysrhythmia.

_How in the hell could he be rejecting the damn anti-rejection medication?_

"Run the lines open. And shut off those damn alarms."

Within minutes, the monitor showed a steadier heart rate. They had not taken him off the respirator. His oxygen saturation was the only normal reading on the display. As his vitals normalized and new medication pushed, McCoy took a moment to reassess.

He looked at Kirk's chart, quickly reviewing the list of anti-rejection medications they had tried in the past four days. Kirk's body hadn't responded to any of them, still rejecting the alien blood. They were running out of options.

It was a little after 0100. Dimly lit and run by a smaller third shift, the ICU seemed eerily empty. He had been awakened by the duty nurse and informed of Kirk's rapid deterioration. By the time he had entered the room, Kirk had gone into anaphylactic shock.

The serum the lab had finally completed had been administered…and quickly refused.

Kirk's body was literally rejecting itself. And it was taking its toll. Electrolytes and rhythm impulses were all off scale. His heart was showing stress. And that didn't include the damage the radiation had already done. It drained a tremendous amount of energy for the body to fight off infection or reject a part of itself. Though unconscious, Kirk was succumbing to exhaustion and McCoy wasn't certain how much more the young man could take.

He allowed himself a moment to look at Kirk. It was difficult not to see through his physician's eye, not to diagnose and evaluate. A part of his mind calculated Kirk's odds, while another part looked on with sorrow. It was so hard to see his friend this way…vulnerable…dying.

"_I think these things are pretty safe."_

The very first words Kirk had said to him were of reassurance…comfort. What could he say now to comfort his friend? He looked at the still features. Despite being terribly ill, Kirk still looked impossibly young. Too young to be commanding a starship; too young to bear the responsibility for the lives of hundreds of crew.

Of its own volition, McCoy's hand reached out and gently pushed back a few strands of sandy-colored hair. Then he drew back his hand.

It wasn't good for a doctor to get too close to his patient. _Too late, it's a done deal._

With a deep breath, he took a seat next to Kirk and tapped the screen of the PADD. He began reviewing the data from the moment Kirk was brought into Sickbay.

"You're starting to look like your patient," a voice accused.

McCoy looked up from the screen he had been immersed in and met the critical stare of Dr. Boyce. For a moment, his mind stumbled. The senior medical officer was not prone to entering the patient wards before 0700. Then he took in the surroundings and realized the ICU was in full swing.

Boyce looked up at the patient display. "He didn't like this one, either."

"No," McCoy said heavily.

"What do we have left?"

Though McCoy was Chief Medical Officer on Enterprise and by extension Kirk's personal physician, Boyce was the attending physician at Starfleet Medical Center. That made the older physician primary on Kirk's case, though he had happily taken a step back to let McCoy lead.

"Not much." He looked down at the PADD. "I keep thinking we missed something."

Boyce studied the display with keen eyes, then made a non-committal noise and moved to examine Kirk. "He's still running a fever."

"It's down from last night." McCoy joined him on the opposite side of the bed. A primitive and unfamiliar sensation rose. He didn't like the other physician examining Kirk.

Boyce was old-fashioned. The advanced medical technology made patient diagnostics and care more efficient, but less personal. The display showed dozens of intimate details about Jim Kirk as they were fed through the sensitive scanners on the bio-bed. A doctor could pass a scanner over the patient and know more about where he hurt than the patient himself. But there were times when a doctor just wanted to put his hands on the patient and feel for himself what was wrong.

Boyce was such a doctor.

The older man's hands were sure and practiced. He checked the intubation tube on the respirator before running his hands down Kirk's chest and resting on the flat abdomen. He gently palpitated the area and frowned. "He's got some distension."

Both men turned their heads to study the display, focusing on the pain indicator. It showed low levels.

"I've kept the analgesics at moderate levels," McCoy said. With all the other medication Kirk was on, he hadn't wanted to compromise Kirk's system any further by heavy doses of pain meds; there were very few to which the man was not allergic.

Boyce pulled up the cooling blanket to cover Kirk's feverish body and took a moment to scrutinize the unconscious form. He looked up at McCoy. "He's showing signs of extreme stress."

"He's under extreme stress."

The two physicians faced off in silence. McCoy wasn't going to be intimated by this man, no matter how senior he was in rank or experience. He knew what Boyce saw. Any third year medical student would have been able to diagnose the chronic stress that had become so evident in Kirk. The monitors left little to imagination.

Despite his motionless figure, Kirk's adrenal glands were releasing epinephrine as a response to the stress of the transfusion. His blood vessels were constricting, creating hypertension. There was a real danger of damage to his cardiovascular system-a complication Kirk did not need.

This type of continual stress produced changes in the neurons and their synapses in the hippocampus, leading to impairments of memory and spatial orientation. And then there was Kirk's immune system which had been severely compromised by the radiation. He had no antibodies; even a simple cold could kill him now.

"Leonard," Boyce said in a low, knowing tone. The single word was a remonstrance.

McCoy was tired. The weariness was bone deep, and weighed on him like an anchor. He felt helpless and ineffectual. Doctors were taught to cure, to fix what's ailing, and a vital part of that training was learning to accept when they have done all they can. But McCoy wasn't ready to quit. Not by a long shot. He clasped his hands behind his back in an unfamiliar military stance.

"I think you're too close to this one," Boyce said.

So that was it; the real reason for Boyce's visit. Doctors don't treat their friends for good reason. Had the rumors finally caught up to him? Impartial judgment was a luxury McCoy couldn't afford.

"He's not giving up," McCoy said. "Neither am I."

Boyce was silent for a long moment. McCoy could see the man's thoughts turning; Boyce had every right and the authority to remove McCoy as Kirk's doctor. And there wouldn't be a damn thing McCoy could do about it.

Boyce nodded once, a barely perceptible move. "I want a full report on his progress." He turned and took one step away. Stopped. "And Admiral Komack wants to be briefed."

McCoy didn't watch him leave. He stayed in his place by Kirk until he sensed the new presence of a familiar figure.

"You're late," he said without turning around.

"I did not wish to interrupt," Spock said.

"I would have welcomed an interruption," he said solemnly.

"Doctor Boyce does not agree with your treatment plan?"

What treatment plan? He was swinging at balls being thrown at him, trying to keep Kirk alive long enough for the man to recover. "Professional disagreement."

"Captain Kirk did not respond positively to the latest anti-rejection medication?"

"He did not," McCoy said and moved away from the bed. As if things weren't bad enough, he would now have to face Admiral Komack.

"His temperature is higher," Spock noted.

"Yes," McCoy said heavily, retrieving the PADD from his chair. My god he was tired.

"He is in pain?"

"It's being managed." He studied the report, not certain what Komack wanted to see. How much did the Admiral really know?

"He looks…fragile."

McCoy turned sharply at the words, stunned. For a brief moment he saw Spock unguarded. The stern, impenetrable Vulcan shield had dropped to reveal something very human. The normally disciplined features had softened into an expression of…. He wasn't certain what. Compassion? Fear? …Love?

_So, that's what a Vulcan looks like when he's helpless._

"He _is _fragile, Spock," he said carefully.

And in an instant, the shield was back in place. Spock straightened slightly and turned away from McCoy without seeming to move at all.

What would it take, he wondered, for the Vulcan to reach out and touch Kirk? Would it be a plea from Kirk, the simple relief of Kirk's survival, or his dying breath? He shook his head. He had never admired emotional restraint. Life was too damn short.

Spock heard McCoy sigh and then leave the room. Vulcan hearing could easily discern the conversation McCoy was having with the duty nurse, but the instructions did not interest him. Alone and unobserved, he took the opportunity to study his friend.

_Fragile?_

It was a word Kirk would not want used to describe him. Spock had seen Kirk beaten and bruised, swaying on his feet with pain, and even grief-struck with emotion. In all that, there was always an indefinable energy that set him apart, brought him to vibrant life.

That energy was gone now.

Kirk lay unnaturally still. His complexion had gone from pale to ashen, and now was covered with a sheen of sweat. The blue eyes that seemed to Spock to change tone and color with emotion, were hidden behind pale lids that made no attempt to flutter. The respirator forced oxygen into Kirk's lungs, but it was manufactured motion. It offered Spock a false sense of comfort that, at this moment, he refused.

"Good morning," Nurse Hiller said with a smile. She was one of the three ICU nurses who currently cared for Kirk.

Spock withdrew slightly from the bed.

"You don't have to move," she said pleasantly, moving to the opposite side of the bed. "We're just going to reposition him."

Another nurse joined her.

"We have to put the brace on," Hiller said. "He broke a few vertebrae."

The brace was an immobile energy field that surrounded Kirk's middle, making it impossible for his spine to shift. Together they slowly turned Kirk slightly on his side, careful of the intubation tube. His body moved with boneless softness, as if he were nothing more than a puppet with the strings severed.

It was difficult for Spock to watch the idle manipulation of the man he had come to admire. Unable to even breathe on his own, Kirk was completely dependent on these strangers for his basic care.

"Did Dr. McCoy order Halderpine?" the nurse asked.

"No. I think they're going to try another anti-rejection drug," Hiller said, tucking the cooling blanket around Kirk.

"This fever is taking a lot out of him."

"Yes," Hiller said and moved to tap lightly on the intravenous output machine. "He doesn't seem to want to cooperate."

Both nurses exited as unobtrusively as they had arrived.

Spock moved forward again and sat in his familiar chair by the side of the bed to keep vigil. He did not have experience in these things. He was not certain what he was supposed to do.

His brief years on Earth had not given him experience in the human medical field. Vulcan, with its great scientific technology and advances, healed in what Humans would view as a very archaic manner. Vulcans simply withdrew their consciousness and focused on mending their bodies. There was little need for such physiological intervention.

He found himself looking at Kirk again. It was the stillness that bothered him the most, as if the very life had been stolen from the young captain. He wondered how much longer this human would be able to fight. When would the struggle overtake Kirk? Would he simply surrender?

Spock's eyes trailed from the softened features to the edge of the bed where Kirk's hand was curled into a gentle fist, lying exposed on top of the blanket.

_Fragile._

Yes, humans were fragile.

He reached out and let his fingertips caress the pale hand.

A pattern had emerged in the small ICU room. A cycle of new medications, blood analysis, and cardiovascular support made up the days that followed. Kirk remained unconscious and they continued alternating between by-pass and respiratory support. His fever persisted, and none of the medical staff knew where he got the strength to continue to fight.

And then one day, Kirk's body began to respond to the treatment.

Hiller handed McCoy Kirk's blood results. Her eyes were lit and a small smile played across her round face.

McCoy reviewed the lab results. "His cells are beginning to repair themselves."

He didn't look up as he spoke, knowing that the Vulcan remained in his familiar spot at Kirk's bedside. Spock had become a permanent fixture in the ICU.

They had waited ten days, battling to keep Kirk alive, never knowing from moment to moment if the captain would succumb to simple exhaustion. Now, for the first time, McCoy saw real progress.

Spock stood. If a Vulcan could look happy, then McCoy supposed Spock did. The Vulcan looked at the medical display, as if seeking confirmation of McCoy's prognosis. Kirk's vitals showed no sign of the improvement.

"It's a good sign, Spock."

Then Kirk's condition steadily began to change. By the end of the day, they were able to take him off the respirator. His blood-pressure increased marginally and slowly his fever reduced.

The "super-blood," as McCoy had come to call it, was regenerating at an astonishing rate. It replaced cells that had been damaged and protected those that had not. Even the most advanced of medical science could not accomplish what Khan's blood had done on its own. Kirk's red blood-cell count rose as the days progressed and McCoy felt comfortable enough to move him to a private room.

Kirk remained unconscious through it all, much to Spock's dismay.

"He'll wake when he's ready," was all McCoy would say on the subject.

Kirk became strong enough to undergo surgery to repair the broken vertebrae. McCoy became somewhat of a permanent fixture himself, monitoring Kirk's progress closely. The medical scientist in him distrusted the results.

Then, in the very early hours of a quiet morning, Kirk began to wake.


	3. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"_It's a boy?" the man said incredulously._

His father's voice drifted through the thick darkness that consumed him, a voice that had haunted him his entire life.

"_Let's call him Jim._"

The words enveloped him. Happiness. Sorrow.

"_I love you so much."_

Desperation.

"_He saved 800 lives…I dare you to do better."_

A new voice. Paternal.

"_I believe in you…. It's going to be all right, son."_

It called him home.

James Kirk did not rise to consciousness with the gentle ease of a man waking from a long slumber, content and refreshed. Rather he awoke like he did most things in his life: Like a man swimming up from the ocean's depth, breaking the water barrier to gasp his first desperate breath of air.

Light. Oxygen. Pain.

He blinked. Blood pulsed loudly in his ears. Roaring, rushing...he was alive.

An alarm sounded softly.

A white, ghostly figure hovered near.

His lungs stretched to fill with air. It was the only thing that seemed to be working in a body that felt leaden and paralyzed.

"Oh, don't be so melodramatic. You were barely dead."

A familiar voice…chastising…reassuring.

Bones.

He struggled to bring the world around him into focus. It was too bright, too loud.

"It was the transfusion that really took a toll," McCoy said. "You've been out cold for two weeks."

His mind stumbled on words. He struggled to hold onto a single thought.

"Transfusion…?" It was incredibly difficult to talk. His throat felt like someone had rubbed it with sandpaper.

"Your cells were heavily irradiated. We had no choice."

Irradiated? Yes…the warp core was out of alignment.

"Khan?"

"I synthesized a serum from his…super blood. Tell me, are you feeling homicidal? Power mad? Despotic?"

"No more than usual." His heart pumped loudly. Khan had betrayed them.

_A vicious kick to the ribs sent him on his back. Pain exploded in his chest._

"How did you catch him?" he asked weakly.

"I didn't," McCoy said and moved away, out of his view.

A new figure came forward. A gray uniform – straight and slim. He could see the shiny black hair and sharp features.

…"_I want you to know…why I couldn't let you die…why I went back for you." Pain radiated from his back and abdomen, spreading out to charge every nerve._

_He was dying…._

"You saved my life." Beneath the heaviness and exhaustion was a gnawing in his lower back.

"Uhura and I had something to do with it too, you know," McCoy said from somewhere on his left side.

_Okay, Bones._

"You saved _my_ life, Captain," Spock said, "and the lives of the entire crew —"

"Spock…just—" He took a breath. The pain in his middle radiated outward. "Thank you."

"You are welcome, Jim."

It took all his energy to breathe, much less keep his eyes open. Sleep pulled at him, dragging him into an inviting darkness. But a thought niggled at him. Something was missing. The too-bright room…the stillness beneath him….

"Where am I?" he asked weakly, forcing his eyes open again.

"Starfleet Medical Center," Spock answered.

"_How's our ship?"_

"_Out of danger_."

He frowned. His vision blurred. "Where's the…ship?"

"In space dock, undergoing repairs."

"_Captain, we have a hull breach."_

"_Major hull damage, Captain."_

"How bad?" he asked faintly.

"No." McCoy's voice was disembodied - loud and stern. "Jim, you're not getting a briefing. Spock, _out._"

His eyelids closed despite his effort to keep them open. There were a hundred questions he had to ask, things he wanted to say. But he felt oddly alien in his own body, removed from it despite the pain.

Fading voices murmured, carrying him into darkness.

When he awoke again it was dark…and he was alone.

He thought he had dreamt, but he couldn't remember the dream.

The soft sounds of the monitoring equipment filled the stillness. The large display lit the wall with a profusion of colors. He rolled his head on the pillow and away from the display. The view from his window was little more than muted shadows splayed across an empty pane. He couldn't see the stars.

He hated hospitals.

He tried to shift his position in the bed, but discovered his body was strangely uncooperative, so he ceased the effort and continued to stare out the window. His thoughts drifted, random and disjointed. Despite all the things he wanted to know, he suddenly realized that he didn't want to think…didn't want to feel.

A voice rose from the murky corners of his mind.

"_You don't comply with the rules. You don't take responsibility for __**anything**__. And you. Don't. Respect. The chair. And you know why? Because you're not ready for it."_

Had he done what was right? He'd gotten the man he had set out to capture, exposed a plot to create war with the Klingons, and almost destroyed his ship and crew in the process. And for what?

Pike was still dead. Marcus would never answer for his crimes, Khan was under wraps and now war with the Klingons was imminent – a war he had helped to create.

"_He's playing you, son!"_

But it was Marcus who had played him.

The shadows on the pane offered him little comfort and no companionship. He wanted the solitude. He watched them until his lids dragged shut.

* * *

Spock was off duty, but still dressed in Starfleet's simple black undershirt. He had very few civilian clothes. His off hours were spent in meditation or reflection and occasionally in the science labs. But the past two weeks he had become accustomed to spending his time at Starfleet Medical at Kirk's side.

Today was no different.

Now for the first time he waited, not in fear, but in anticipation of Kirk waking. As he sat in his familiar chair, Nurse Ryan entered and reviewed the settings on the medication infuser next to Kirk. Ryan had been assigned to Kirk by Boyce. She was experienced and mature with a quiet, gentle personality that suited Spock well. In the few days he had known her, she seemed attentive and focused on her duties, a refreshing change from the capricious behavior he had observed in the other nurses.

Human behavior never ceased to perplex him, especially the human need to romanticize. As it became known that Kirk was going to recover, Spock became aware of the gossip circulating in the facility's corridors. People spoke of Kirk in terms of a celebrity – curious to see him and somewhat thrilled by his proximity.

When Spock asked McCoy for insight into this particular human behavior, the doctor merely shrugged his shoulders and said that humans found comfort in extraordinary feats. Spock did not inquire further.

Vulcans did not believe in the phenomenon of 'celebrity' and Spock did not view the man sleeping in the bed as such. He saw a man who had risked everything for his ship and crew, a man who was, at times, uncertain and afraid, a man driven by his convictions and willing to risk his career for his friend…a man who felt deeply.

Ryan smiled politely at Spock as she finished her round and left.

It was some time later when Kirk opened his eyes. He blinked several times and Spock could see the usually vibrant blue eyes were glazed and struggling to focus. In the last few days, some color had returned to his complexion. A frown marred the youthful features. He seemed unaware of Spock's presence.

Spock had noted that McCoy was continuing antibiotics and nutritional support, as well as pain medication, all being pushed into Kirk by the machine at the side of the bed. The medical display indicated an increase in Kirk's heart rate.

It took a few long minutes for Kirk's eyes to come to rest on Spock. Slowly, his eyes cleared and recognition showed. The corners of the colorless mouth curled softly. He gazed around the room. "I never thought I'd say this, but…I prefer the beds in our Sickbay."

Spock raised his eyebrows. "It would be wise not allow Doctor McCoy to hear you say that."

"Ummm." Kirk's eyes blurred again. He trailed his left hand along his side, a confused, tense expression on his face.

"Do you require assistance?" Spock asked anxiously, leaning forward.

Kirk barely shook his head. He seemed to sink into the mattress, relinquishing his earlier exploration. He turned his head to Spock. "You were in dress."

It took Spock just a moment to realize that Kirk was referring to the last time he saw him. "Yes. Khan's formal inquiry."

Kirk frowned. "What happened?"

Spock hesitated, considering his answer carefully. "In lieu of a verdict and, given the extensiveness of the circumstances, Starfleet Command has decided to place Khan back into cryogenic suspension."

The door opened and McCoy entered, carrying a PADD. He looked at Kirk and smiled. "Good to see you awake, Jim."

But Kirk would not be distracted. His frown deepened as he kept his attention on Spock. "The rest of his crew?"

"They are secure in an undisclosed location."

Kirk turned toward the window and stared out.

Spock glanced at McCoy who made his displeasure known. McCoy had warned him not to debrief Kirk or give him extensive information.

"Don't tire yourself, Jim," McCoy said, scowling at Spock as he moved to stand on the opposite side of the bed. He placed his scanner on Kirk's chest and reviewed the information being fed into the PADD.

"All of that and he goes back to sleep," Kirk said ruefully.

"It was a…compromise," Spock said.

"A compromise," Kirk repeated. He shifted in the bed, his face tense. His fingers gingerly touched his left side. His respiration increased.

"Where are you uncomfortable?" McCoy asked. He studied Kirk's face closely.

"Everywhere," Kirk said crossly.

McCoy came around to the other side. Spock moved out of the way, but stayed close.

"We had to insert catheters," McCoy said, drawing back the blanket. "They can irritate."

"Why is it so difficult to move?" Kirk asked.

"You broke some vertebrae. I have a brace immobilizing your spine until you heal more." McCoy reached for a control. "I'm going to lower you flat so I can examine you."

The bed slowly adjusted to a horizontal level.

"How did I break my vertebrae?" Kirk asked in a raspy voice.

"I'm not sure," McCoy said. "Something you did when you were in the warp core." He lifted Kirk's gown and exposed his left side. McCoy released the brace.

Kirk scowled and said faintly, "I don't remember that."

"It's not important."

One of the intravenous lines was inserted just above the hip bone. The other was a urinary catheter. McCoy's fingers probed the area in the gentle hollow of Kirk's hip, eliciting a soft sound from him.

Kirk's hand caught hold of McCoy's in an attempt to cease the offensive probing. His body had become rigid.

"Is the pain in front where I'm touching, or in your back?"

Kirk was breathing heavy now. His face showed strain and he had lost what little color he had. "I'm not sure."

McCoy looked up at the display, frowning. He reactivated the brace and lowered the gown to cover Kirk. He reached to the small machine that dispensed the medication and tapped certain keys on the screen.

Within minutes, the tension on Kirk's face had faded. His breathing regulated as his eyes dulled.

Ryan entered as if on cue.

"I want full blood work and a PT scan," McCoy ordered. He tapped quickly on the PADD. "Keep him prone. I don't want any pressure on those vertebrae."

"Yes, Doctor."

Spock had moved closer to the bed, so that Kirk could see him.

"It's like nothing we did mattered," Kirk said.

"We responded to the situation at hand, Captain." When that did not elicit a response, he said, "You stopped Khan."

McCoy came to stand by the other side of the bed. "He needs to rest, Spock."

Spock looked at McCoy then back at Kirk. "I will leave you to recover, Captain."

"Stay." The word was a faint command.

He glanced up at McCoy, who gave him a warning look. Then he looked down at Kirk. "I will stay, Jim. But you must rest."


	4. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

McCoy was reviewing the PT scan and blood results when the sounds of Kirk's distress drew his attention. Flat on his back and immobilized in the brace, Kirk still managed to move enough to cause the monitor alarms to sound. In the throes of a nightmare, Kirk struggled to escape the images in his mind.

"No!" A strangled cry.

McCoy put a hand on Kirk's shoulder, as much to restrain as to comfort. Kirk's arms flung out clumsily to bat away the restraining hand, to free himself from whatever horror held him.

"Jim! You're all right."

Kirk's fingers twisted into the sleeve of McCoy's uniform. As ill as Kirk was, he was surprisingly strong.

"Jim!"

The alarms brought a nurse into the room. She quickly managed the display.

McCoy couldn't tell if Kirk had heard him or had simply become exhausted, but Jim stopped struggling. McCoy watched as clarity slowly came to the blue eyes that focused sharply on him.

"It was just a dream," McCoy said gently.

The nurse had silenced the alarm.

Kirk closed his eyes. His fingers loosened their hold. McCoy took the opportunity to gently pull away from his patient. He rested Kirk's arms on the bed, then craned his head around to see the nurse who stood behind him.

"Just a vitals alarm, Doctor," Ryan said in a low voice. "He's stabilizing, but his pain indicator is high."

McCoy looked down at his patient. Kirk had opened his eyes, now fully aware of his surroundings and clearly feeling the pain his movements had caused.

"Give me 5cc's of norinephrine," he ordered without taking his eyes from Kirk.

"I'm fine," Kirk said thinly.

"Sure you are." He skillfully shot the hypo home. Within seconds Kirk relaxed. "That should ease the pain."

Kirk closed his eyes for a long moment before opening them again. "Now I have a headache."

"There's no pleasing some people." He noted that Kirk was squinting at the lights. "Reduce lights thirty percent."

The lights dimmed enough to reduce the glare, but it seemed not to comfort Kirk.

"It's cold," Kirk complained and tried to shift in the bed.

"You're running a slight fever," McCoy said, noting the flush of Kirk's cheeks.

Ryan appeared with an extra blanket and laid it over Kirk.

"Why isn't this working?" Kirk made the question sound like an accusation.

"Why isn't what working?"

"You said Khan's blood heals quickly."

McCoy raised both eyebrows. "It brought you back from the dead. I'd say that it worked pretty damn well."

"Then why am I flat on my back?"

McCoy took a breath. "Look, Jim, you can't rush your recovery. Your body has been through severe trauma. You rejected Khan's blood from the beginning. Between that, the radiation and the amount of medications we pumped you fu—"

"There are things I need to do," Kirk interrupted forcefully.

"The only thing you need to do now is recover." McCoy's tone matched that of his patient. He caught the sound of irritation and made a conscious effort to adjust his tone. Arguing got him nowhere with Jim. "Jim, you can't fight this. You'll only slow down the recovery process."

Kirk's respiration had increased to match his irritation. Agitated, he pushed the newly placed blanket away and turned his head away from McCoy, dismissing him.

With a sigh, McCoy stepped away. It couldn't be easy, he thought, being flat on your back, weak as a newborn kitten and mad as hell. There was nothing he could do to offer solace to his friend. He couldn't imagine what it was like to die a painful death from radiation then resurrect from it…to face the irrefutable fact that he wasn't infallible after all.

Kirk didn't make a cooperative patient under any circumstances, but he'd been through a lot those last twenty-four hours on the ship, not to mention Khan's attack on Starfleet HQ and the sudden tragic loss of Pike. McCoy imagined there were a hundred places Kirk would rather be than confined to a bed to face his own thoughts.

It was in the stillness that the demons surfaced, that the doubt crept in to taunt. It could chip away at a man.

McCoy had become a bit of an expert on that himself. He turned his attention back to the PT scans and blood results. The vertebrae were healing nicely, but the nerves were raw and spread out the pain into Kirk's lower abdomen. Nothing unusual given the extensive injury, and the pain would diminish as the vertebrae and nerves healed. As for the fever….

Ryan had remained in the room, unobtrusive as ever. She inspected Kirk's IV catheters and the settings on the medications.

"Is there anything I can get you, Captain?" she asked.

McCoy didn't hear a response. He studied the blood results, frowning. A low grade fever meant the body was fighting off some type of infection and the blood results showed a below normal white-blood cell count, which was a change. Was it possible Kirk had picked up a virus? Or was this just a lingering effect of the radiation?

Kirk's body had been over taxed during the transfusion, his heart stressed, and McCoy had kept a close eye on the EKG for signs of damage. There were none, but stress was still evident in other areas. At the most it could compromise Kirk's immune system; at the least it would slow the recovery process.

Ryan appeared at his side. "My shift is over. Do you need anything before I go, Doctor?"

"Run a sterile field on the room. And I'm going to restrict visitors."

"Yes, Doctor." She hesitated. "Is there anything wrong?"

"I just want to be cautious. I don't like this persistent fever."

McCoy glanced at his now sleeping patient. What had it been like in that chamber to lay hurt and dying…and alone? Was it enough to know that his ship was safe? McCoy didn't think so. Kirk was barely twenty-six years old. There were a million things he still wanted to do, to experience.

The question that McCoy had pondered a hundred times in the last two weeks rose again: Why did Kirk go into the warp core knowing that certain death was imminent?

The door opened and Spock walked in. In the past few weeks the Vulcan had earned certain privileges in the ward, and entering Kirk's room without permission was one of them.

Spock noticed Kirk sleeping and turned his attention to McCoy. "He is more comfortable?"

"He's sleeping," McCoy said flatly. "I don't know about comfortable."

Spock stared…waiting.

"His fever isn't going down and his newly regenerated nerves are causing him some pain."

"Perhaps you should increase the analgesics?"

On any other day, McCoy might have found the comment amusing, but today he found it annoying. "Did you get a medical degree when I wasn't looking, Spock?"

"I did not."

"Then keep to science and I'll do the doctoring."

"I did not mean to offend. I was merely…."

"Concerned?" McCoy supplied with a challenge.

"Offering an opinion."

McCoy shook his head. The Vulcan was hopeless. He took the time to record his orders for the nurse.

"Mister Scott has asked to see the captain. Perhaps a visit from a companion will distract him."

"He doesn't need any more distractions," McCoy said in a surly tone, finishing his recording. "And no visitors until I get this fever under control."

"I understand," Spock said slowly. "I believe the crew only want the captain to recover to be able to take command of the Enterprise again."

McCoy's shoulders were tight with tension and the back of his neck ached with the beginning of a killer headache. He wanted to go back to his apartment, take a hot shower and make intimate friends with a bottle of bourbon.

_When did my life get so complicated?_

But he knew the answer: The day he met Jim Kirk.

He looked at Spock. "That's what we all want. But it's not just his physical well-being I have to be concerned about. Jim doesn't convalesce well under the best of circumstances. Given everything that's happened.…"

"You are speaking of his emotional state."

"Look, it's been two weeks for us, but to Jim it's only been a day. He needs time."

Spock digested the information. "You are saying that he needs time to reflect on the events that transpired prior to his…injuries?"

"He lost a man who was very important to him, and ten hours later he's crossing into Klingon territory after a madman and fighting off the head of Starfleet to save his ship and avoid a war." He paused. "That's a hell of a lot for anyone to absorb."

"Events did transpire rapidly."

"That's putting it mildly." McCoy made a few additional notes on the PADD and set it down. "We've all been de-briefed. We've reviewed events so many times we're reviewing them in our sleep. We've asked ourselves how this happened and what we could have done differently. Hell, we even had a chance to mourn those we lost. Jim hasn't."

Spock walked up to the bed and watched the sleeping man. "I had not considered this."

"Jim lost a lot of crew he doesn't even know about yet."

"For every crewmember that died, four were saved."

"Do me a favor, Spock," he said, walking toward the door. "**Don't** say that to Jim when he wakes up."

The door slid shut with a soft hiss, leaving Spock to keep his vigil in silence.

* * *

Kirk stared out the window, watching the rain trail down the glass pane.

"They scheduled rain today," he said quietly.

"No, it is a natural occurrence, though unexpected."

Kirk rolled his head along the pillow and looked at Spock. "Can't count on anything these days."

Spock sat straight-backed and relaxed in the chair by the side of the bed. The brace had been removed from Kirk and he was able to have the bed inclined enough to be able to see his visitor. This change, which McCoy viewed as positive, had no impact on Kirk's mood.

"Don't take this the wrong way, Spock, but why are you my only visitor?"

A single brow lifted. "Doctor McCoy has restricted visitors."

Kirk scowled. "So Scotty's been banned."

"Not precisely. Doctor McCoy believes you need more time to recover before entertaining visitors. The crew is eager to see you and to know that you are well."

"Are they?"

"Of course."

Kirk lay unnervingly still, his thoughts drifting. "The last thing I remember is lying in the exit chamber. I don't even remember how I got there," he said reflectively. "I remember speaking to you, but I don't remember… dying."

Spock regarded him silently.

"Was it that way for Pike?" Kirk asked.

Spock didn't like speaking on this subject. Having melded with Pike, the emotions and thoughts of the dying Admiral were still very raw and fresh within him. He had not reconciled with that experience. It brought up strong emotions regarding his mother's death – a subject upon which he chose not to reflect.

But the man in the bed had also been through what Pike and his mother had experienced, and Spock was curious as well if his friend had gone gently into that eternal darkness.

"It was different for Admiral Pike," he said slowly. "His death was unexpected and violent."

"Why should that matter? Isn't death the great equalizer?"

"Perhaps it is," he said. "But it is also a unique personal experience, as are most things, subject to the interpretation of the individual."

"I thought it would be different," Kirk said, pressing back into the mattress and wincing slightly as he did so. He looked again out the window and at the rain pouring down. "I'm supposed to be asking the big questions: Did I live to the fullest? Did anything I do make a difference? Would anyone really care when I was gone or would I just be a name on the wall at Starfleet Command that people would point to and wonder what might have been?"

"That is more than most."

"That's not very comforting," Kirk said without looking at him.

"I regret I do not have the words to comfort," he said sincerely. "I also have sought comfort on this matter. What I know is that all sentient beings strive to find purpose in death, as if that final occurrence somehow reveals the meaning of life. But I have discovered that there is nothing meaningful in death – it is simply an ending. It is what we do with our time while we are living that has meaning."

"Also subject to interpretation," Kirk said, returning his gaze to Spock.

"Yes, but it is not the interpretation of the individual, but that of those whose lives have been touched by him." Spock looked closely at Kirk. "I would have missed you."

Kirk smiled ever so slightly. "Thank you."

Ryan entered. The hiss of the door opening and her presence seemed to stir the stagnant air, rousing them from their solemn thoughts. Ryan smiled pleasantly at Kirk as she approached the bed with a small device.

Kirk eyed the narrow stylus. "Don't you have enough of my blood?"

"Sorry," she said reaching for his arm. "Doctor McCoy has ordered blood draws twice a day."

Kirk remained silent and cooperative during the process. As she finished, she took the time to check the IVs and settings.

"How is the pain?" she asked, studying the monitor.

"Fine, thanks for asking," he said.

If she heard the sarcasm in his tone she did not show it. "Is there anything I can get for you?"

"A key to the front door would be great."

She smiled. "That one is going to have to wait. But if it makes you feel any better, Dr. McCoy has scheduled physical therapy for tomorrow."

It did not make him feel better. As much as he wanted out of the bed and the room and the whole damned hospital, the thought of standing and putting pressure on his throbbing back made him cringe.

He sighed and turned his attention back to Spock. "I feel like a recluse. What's happened during the last two weeks, Spock? What have I missed?"

"Mister Scott has been busy overseeing the repairs of Enterprise. The ship sustained significant structural damage, but the warp core remained surprisingly undamaged." Spock studied Kirk's pale face and flushed cheeks, the tiny lines between the eyebrows indicating stress. "Perhaps we can conclude this when you are more rested."

"No. Continue. I want it all."

Spock hesitated only a few seconds before complying. Kirk sat quietly for the next twenty minutes as Spock briefed him on the damage. The report was long and detailed, recounting not only the external damage, but internal, as well. As Spock spoke in a neutral tone, succinctly relaying the information, he noticed that Kirk seemed to gradually withdraw, to stare blindly at a point beyond Spock's head.

Spock stopped. "Captain?"

It took a moment for Kirk's eyes to focus and to bring himself back to the present. He looked at Spock, his eyes bright and intensely blue. "How many crew did we lose?"

Silence.

"Spock, how many?"

"Fifty-eight."

Shock registered on Kirk's face. He lost a little color. "Fifty-eight?" he said faintly. "I killed fifty-eight crew."

"That is incorrect," Spock said. "The risk associated with any space travel is considerable. With a mission involving potential great hazard, the risks increase exponentially. Every Starfleet officer knows this and must willingly accept it when they take assignment aboard a starship."

Kirk said nothing, but turned his head to stare out the window. "What was it all for, Spock?" His voice was barely a whisper.

It was a question Spock could not fully answer.

"Jim, you saved hundreds of lives…perhaps thousands. The future is before us. For now, this is all we can know."


	5. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Kirk drew in a tight, halting breath and closed his eyes in an effort to concentrate on keeping his trembling legs from collapsing. He was regretting his earlier bravado when he announced to McCoy that he didn't need any help to stand.

He felt himself sway and a strong hand instantly gripped his arm.

"Keep breathing, Jim," McCoy ordered.

He sucked in a short breath. A shudder tore through him and he experienced a weakness he'd never known before. His lower back throbbed intensely, spreading out toward his chest and sinking into his pelvis. The sound of rushing blood was a deafening cacophony.

"How are you doing?"

"Terrific," he muttered. It was all he could manage through his tightly clenched jaw. He forced open his eyes. He was never so aware of his own heartbeat. The room spun and blurred in a sea of nondescript shades of white – disorientating and opaque. _Who the hell's idea was it to paint every goddam wall white?_

It was difficult for him to tell where the boundaries were, where wall and floor met. He felt as if he were bleeding into the space around him. Sweat ran down his temples. He drew another staggering breath, feeling the pull of every muscle and nerve from his hip to his shoulder.

Alarms sounded loudly.

"Okay, let's get him back," McCoy ordered.

_Back where?_

He was being ushered into the bed and had no strength to resist. He was still connected to an IV in his arm, but thankfully the urinary catheter had been removed that morning. All this was little comfort to him now. The nerves in his back were on fire, creating a sudden wave of nausea. His world had been reduced to a thick dense fog, gray and static…and filled with pain.

He sensed the commotion around him, but paid little attention, concentrating instead on breathing as little as possible. Every movement of his lungs caused shards to dig into his abdomen and back. It gnawed away at his center, made worse by the trembling in his body.

A blanket covered him; a cool compress to his head, voices…the cold sting of a hypo on his neck.

His heart rate slowed and the rushing in his ears subsided to a dull susurrate, leaving an ache behind his eyes. His thoughts cleared as the room came into focus. He saw McCoy staring down at him with an expression that bordered on amusement.

"Lie still and let the hypo work," McCoy ordered. He passed a small instrument near Kirk's head.

But Kirk weakly pushed it away, scowling. His hand fell back to the bed. Even that small act of defiance had a cost. His back throbbed in cadence with his heartbeat. Whatever McCoy had given him it had only barely taken the edge off his back.

"You did well, Jim."

"I stood for five minutes," he said in a dour tone.

"And you were expecting to sprint down the hall?"

Yes, that was definitely amusement he'd seen on McCoy's face.

"You might have warned me," he said.

"I did warn you. You didn't listen."

He closed his eyes, furious with his body and not too happy with McCoy either. The trembling in his body had reduced to shivers that seemed only to make the pain worse. He hated the weakness and hated not having a moment of privacy. He couldn't even relieve himself without it being monitored.

His body was constantly being poked and prodded. He knew the only way out was to walk through the doors, and he couldn't even stand.

_I hate this._

McCoy sighed. "Jim, you were unconscious for two weeks. You have to go slow. You haven't built up your strength yet."

He didn't like being weak. It was one thing to be wounded – a soldier carried off the battlefield. It was another to be bedridden with exhaustion – too weak to stand and trembling like an invalid.

"Not to bore you with the details of human physiology, Jim, but men who spend two weeks unconscious don't just wake and start running. You lost a good bit of muscle and weight in those two weeks, not to mention the stress put on your major organs by fighting the transfusion."

"You've got to be kidding me," he said under his breath and opened his eyes to glare at McCoy. "You're giving me a biology lecture."

"You could use one," McCoy said gently fired back. "Listen, Jim, I don't want to overstress your system. You're still fighting off a fever."

"I'm not made of glass," Kirk shot back.

"I know that," McCoy responded evenly.

The trembling had finally stopped. He was spent, wrung dry. The good thing about physical exhaustion – he was too tired to think and, hopefully, too tired to dream.

"The next time will be easier," McCoy promised and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Get some sleep."

Sound medical advice.

* * *

"Damn it, Spock, that isn't what I said," McCoy retorted.

They were in the hall just outside Kirk's room. They had stepped out so as not to disturb a sleeping Kirk, and where McCoy felt free to speak his mind.

"There is no need to become emotional, Doctor."

"The hell there isn't!"

A nurse passing by turned her head toward them in interest as she moved down the hall.

It was taking all of Spock's discipline as a Starfleet officer and as a Vulcan to maintain his composure at McCoy's outburst. "Vice Admiral Satori is well within his authority to request an interview with the Captain."

"And I'm well within my authority to refuse him." McCoy scowled and paced restlessly in the small space in front of Spock.

"That would not be wise."

Vice Admiral Satori was head of Starfleet Inspector General. Despite his role in Starfleet – conducting internal investigations on Starfleet personnel – he was an easy-going man who had a way of disarming others, a dangerous combination for a man in his position. Spock had noted that the man was extraordinarily successful at getting what he wanted.

"Every crewmember on the ship has given him an interview," McCoy said. "He doesn't need Jim's and sure as hell doesn't need it today. One more interview isn't going to change anything and you know it."

"It is not about changing, Doctor, but about maintaining."

McCoy's scowl deepened. "I've been arguing with Boyce all morning Spock. I'm not in the mood for riddles."

"Then I will simplify this for you. The captain is the commanding officer on a ship that crossed into Klingon space, engaged the Klingons in battle and helped to destroy another Starfleet vessel that was commanded by the head of Starfleet. He _must _give an interview."

"He's not strong enough."

"Doctor—"

McCoy came to a standstill in front of Spock. "It's not just Satori. Komack wants to see him, and someone from Medical Command— "

"I understand your reluctance in this matter, and I am well aware of the interest the Captain has generated in Command, but your refusal to allow them access to him will only cause more concern."

"For two weeks the man in that room lingered between life and death." McCoy stabbed a finger toward the closed door. "He almost gave up his life so that his crew could live, and now you want me to just hand him over to a couple of curious Admirals who don't have the bare courtesy to wait until the man can stand on his own feet."

Spock remained ramrod straight and unmoving. When he spoke, his tone had lowered to a personal level. "Doctor, you cannot protect him forever."

McCoy's shoulders fell. He looked deflated. "I don't want to protect him forever, Spock. But he can't even walk to the end of his room and I've got Admirals circling him like vultures on a day-old carcass."

Spock had never encountered the fiercely protective nature of McCoy, and he wasn't certain how to manage it. He respected this part of McCoy – the consummate physician and loyal friend – but the often overly emotional human had very narrow vision.

"He is our friend, Leonard, but he is also captain of the Enterprise."

McCoy was unmoving for a moment, then spun away from Spock on the heels of his boots. "I know that, damn it," he said without turning back. "But for a few more days, can't he just be James Kirk?"

"The two are not mutually exclusive, Doctor. He has duties as a Starfleet Officer…and so do you."

McCoy remained facing away from Spock in silence. When he turned back to the First Officer he looked like a man who had just made a bargain with Satan. "I was a doctor before I was a Starfleet Officer. What about my duty to my patient?"

"Do what you see fit, Doctor, but remember, your decisions impact all of us."

Reluctantly, McCoy met Spock's eyes, then turned and walked away.

* * *

McCoy entered the Medical Center ward in a foul mood. He was awakened at 0500 hours to the insistent chime of his computer. He was unceremoniously being summoned to Starfleet Medical Command. He'd spent the morning in a briefing room with Boyce and the head of Medical answering questions regarding Kirk's treatment and progress. The Admiralty wanted a progress report, he was told.

Apparently he'd been remiss in his updates.

He'd barely stepped out of the room when he was sequestered by an assistant of Satori, who insisted on a firm date and time to interview Kirk. The **Admiralty,** the assistant had said, had promised his cooperation. McCoy had managed to buy his patient another day. But that was it.

The proverbial genie was out of the bottle and suddenly all of Starfleet and Earth were buzzing about news of Kirk – the hero who saved the Federation, the miracle man who had defied death. It made for great media fodder. To make matters worse, someone had leaked about Admiral Marcus' perfidy to the media and all of the Federation were expressing outrage at Starfleet.

Citizens of the Federation didn't collectively pay Starfleet to provoke a secret war with the Klingons, and they sure as hell didn't pay for a war machine. Starfleet had always been about exploration, strengthening the Federation through alliance, not weaponry.

It was a powder keg waiting to explode.

Starfleet was doing a spectacular job of covering its ass, and that only drew more attention to the young hero who had fought the renegade Admiral- the son of George Kirk, living up to his heritage.

McCoy rounded the corner into the private wing that housed Jim's room. He'd missed rounds that morning and was anxious to check on Jim. Just as he approached, Ryan exited Kirk's room carrying a tray. He looked at the tray of food she had covered and she shook her head.

Jim still wasn't eating.

Another battle.

He took a moment to shake off his irritation and fatigue, and entered the room. Jim was unsettled in the bed, his face flushed with fever. Out of habit, McCoy studied the readings on the display. He knew from the detailed report he'd received at home that morning that Kirk had had a disruptive night. Between nightmares and the pain, Kirk had barely slept. The fever was wearing on his system, leaching away what little energy McCoy's treatments had given him.

"Jim, you've gotta eat."

"Bones, I'm not hungry."

McCoy looked at the ashen complexion and dullness in the blue eyes. The display monitor told McCoy that Kirk's heart rate and respiration were increased, which was in line with a higher fever. Electrolytes were still off, as were protein counts. The fever was causing fatigue and achiness. McCoy was certain the nausea was only one unpleasant discomfort among many for Kirk.

"I know this is difficult," McCoy said. "We're introducing what your system needs little by little, but it's going at its own pace. You'll feel better once you eat."

"No. Not now."

McCoy knew Kirk hadn't been able to keep anything down that he'd attempted to eat. He really didn't blame the man for refusing, but there was only so much nutrition a body could process intravenously. He had to get Jim's gastrointestinal system working.

"It's a paradox, but you aren't going to feel hungry until you eat."

Kirk didn't respond and McCoy could see the petulance on his face. McCoy sighed – partly out of frustration and partly out of sympathy. Nothing was going to cajole Jim; he had dug in his heels. McCoy turned to the medical table to retrieve a small scanner and stepped next to the bed.

His physician's eyes never failed him. Always diagnosing and evaluating. As a doctor, he had become acutely attuned to the suffering of others, and knew instantly when a patient was hiding discomfort or trying to create subterfuge.

Jim was clearly hiding his pain. McCoy noted the sweat soaked sandy hair and light bruises beneath the blue eyes. He even saw slight tremor in Jim's left hand that the man was trying to hide.

"You look like hell," he said.

Kirk showed a brief expression of surprise. "Is that your professional opinion?"

"It is." McCoy passed the scanner over Kirk's ribs. "How does your back feel?"

"I'm not going to be fighting Klingons anytime soon."

Translation: Better, but not great. The scanner showed the vertebrae healing, but the nerves were still hyperactive. He eyed the spikes on the monitor with concern. Physical therapy would only irritate the nerves, but he needed to get Jim moving to stimulate his system.

The liver was slightly enlarged and he made a note on the record to draw a sample and to run a full cardio panel along with a neurological scan. The tremors could be fatigue, or they could be something else.

"When can I get this out?" Kirk asked, indicating the IV.

"When you start eating."

Kirk made a sound between a growl and sigh and turned his head to stare out the window.

"Look, Jim, the radiation killed all the good bacteria in your body, not to mention what it did to your blood cells and autoimmune system. Khan's blood was good enough to bring you back from the dead, but the blood you're producing now is your own. I can't just treat one symptom. I have to treat your whole body."

Kirk continued to stare out the window.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Yes."

McCoy watched him for a moment. The petulance had faded and he looked now like a man who had reached his limits and was about to lie down in defeat. McCoy realized suddenly that that idea bothered him more than watching Jim struggle to stand. Defeat and James Kirk didn't go together.

Maybe Spock was right. Maybe protecting Jim wasn't the right thing to do.

* * *

Spock regarded Kirk with discomfort. "I had thought a more detailed report on the ship's status would ease some of your concerns and help you to feel…more connected."

The PADD rested loosely in Kirk's hands. It seemed heavy and burdensome and he rested it on his lap. "It does. Thank you," he said quietly and seemed to become lost in thought.

"My report to Starfleet Command is also there," Spock supplied.

Kirk said nothing.

The room was quiet, except for the soft sounds of the display monitor. McCoy still had Kirk on a tight watch. His fever had not gone down and medications were still being pushed through an IV in his arm. Though there were improvements to his health, Spock could see he tired easily.

"I feel I have fatigued you, Captain," Spock said. "And perhaps unnecessarily burdened you with details you need not know yet."

"It's not you, Spock." Kirk seemed to rouse from introspection. "I appreciate the updates, and the company. It's just… I don't…sit well."

Spock raised his brows in amusement. "I have noticed that."

His attempt at levity did not work. Kirk remained solemn. For the first time Spock noticed how much weight Kirk had lost. Thin through the shoulders and chest, and pale from his ordeal, Kirk managed to still command an air of authority. He was still captain of the Enterprise.

But something deep within the human had changed. Spock could feel it as certainly as he knew his own thoughts. Some of the recklessness had given way to a deeper sense of responsibility. It was that responsibility that now weighed on Kirk.

"Don't you ever get restless, Spock?" he asked lightly.

The question caught Spock off guard. "Vulcans do not get restless. We are taught at an early age to reflect, to think before we respond." He tilted his head slightly. "For that very reason we are solitary."

Kirk looked at him for a long time. Spock realized suddenly that it was not fatigue that he saw in Kirk, but sorrow.

"I don't mind solitary," Kirk said thoughtfully. "I mind the Universe moving around me while I stay in place. Not being able to get out of this room, to…barely be able to get out of bed…it's too much time to think."

"That would suggest your thoughts disturb you."

Kirk nodded ever so slightly and moved his gaze away. "They do," he said softly.

Spock was silent for a long moment as he searched for the right words. Their friendship seemed new and fragile to Spock. He was uncertain where the boundaries were, the ones that could not be crossed. It seemed that he had stumbled over those boundaries since they had met, provoking Kirk's ire more than once.

And yet, Kirk had allowed Spock to see his tears when Pike had died, to witness his grief in a way that a man like Kirk rarely shared. That denoted a certain amount of trust he had in Spock.

Kirk had trusted him with his ship. And at the moment of his death, Kirk had exposed his own fear, reaching out and seeking Spock's help for emotional control – as though the Vulcan had a secret skill that he could pass on to his friend. Little did Kirk know at that time every Vulcan discipline Spock had studied and mastered had completely failed him when he had needed it the most.

He had failed his friend.

"When my mother died," Spock began slowly, "I felt restless."

Kirk looked at him, listening intently.

"The image of my mother falling into oblivion just within my reach played out repeatedly in my mind. A few seconds earlier, and she would have been saved. If I had positioned her behind me, she would have been saved. There were a hundred and three possibilities that would have resulted in her life being saved, but only my one action, or lack of it, that resulted in her death."

Kirk was thoughtful and silent. When he spoke, his words sounded as if they were coming from far away. "Do—do you still see her?"

"Not that image."

"How did you do that?" Kirk asked. "How did you stop your mind from playing that scenario over and over? How did you find peace?"

"By realizing that there is no peace in examining a fictious event to alter a fictious outcome."

Kirk frowned. "That doesn't sound very Vulcan."

"Jim, of all the species in the Federation, only humans spend an inordinate amount of time and energy wanting a different reality other than what is. Vulcans understand the futility of that desire."

Kirk thought about that for a moment. "Graceful acceptance."

"There is nothing else to be done. You made your decisions, as I made mine."

Kirk shifted uncomfortably in bed and drew a careful breath. "I read somewhere that those who don't learn from the past are condemned to repeat it."

"George Santayana. He also believed that history was nothing other than assisted and recorded memory, and therefore believed that the past was subject to continual change less similar to the original experience."

Kirk studied him for a moment, suddenly looking drawn and pale. "We can change the past by how we look at it."

"You cannot change the past, but you can change how you view it."

Kirk's eyes narrowed. "That sounds like cheating, Spock."

A single brow lifted. "It is changing the conditions."

Kirk chuckled lightly and rested his head deeper on the pillow.

It was the first time Spock heard him laugh in many weeks.

"I must not tire you. Doctor McCoy will be displeased."

"I'm all right," Kirk said. But his eyes were already closing.

Spock waited until he heard the even, gentle sounds of Kirk's breathing then retrieved the PADD still resting in Kirk's lap and left the room.


	6. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

"We're almost done, Jim," McCoy said.

Kirk lay uneasy on the bed, trying to be still as he had been instructed. McCoy, Boyce and a nurse he didn't know surrounded his prone figure. The lights in the room were painfully bright, reflecting off the white walls and ceiling in a blinding glare. He closed his eyes in an effort to ease the ache that had begun just behind his eyes.

"Cauterize that," Boyce ordered. "I'm going to get a sample from another section."

He'd been numbed for the procedure, but he still felt the pressure of the probe as it took a sample of his liver. It wasn't painful, but it was invasive. He felt trapped and on exhibition beneath their ministrations.

"His heart rate is increasing, Doctor," the nurse said.

"We're almost through," Boyce said.

The machines hummed and beeped around him, an electrical display that distracted and exposed. He felt the strange pressure within him as they moved the instrument. There was a sterile field that stretched from his chest to his hips. He hated the smell of it.

"Nurse, move the scanner to the right," Boyce said.

His chest felt tight and heavy.

"Sample the pancreas while in here?" McCoy suggested.

"Might as well," Boyce said. "Can you get that from your side?"

A high-pitched buzzing filled his ears. It was the sound of the warp core straining to align. _Enterprise_ was falling…falling to Earth.

"How are you doing, Jim?" McCoy asked.

_Terrific._

The buzzing grew louder, filling the tiny room.

"Jim?" McCoy's voice sounded far away.

A wave of heat washed over him. He was on fire…his body burning….

"Doctor, his vitals…"a feminine voice.

He wasn't going to make it. The ship was dying. His crew was dying….

A cool hand on the side of his face. He moved away from it.

The voices were distorted and hollow as if under glass.

"…get his temperature down…."

It was too late, too late to save them. The heat consumed him, dragging him into darkness.

The darkness lifted gradually. He was aware first of his body, which had cooled. His chest rose with shallow breaths. The tightness was gone but his chest felt heavy, as did his whole body. It was all he could do to fill his lungs with short breaths.

He'd fallen away from the warp core: He'd kicked and kicked until his arms were numb and his blood boiled. Every joint and cartilage burned and screamed in agony, but still he kicked. Every time his feet made contact with the coupling it jarred his spine, sending waves of pain through him. And then, somehow, the coupling moved into place, and he was being smashed into the conductors, vertebra cracking. Like a rejected child's toy, his body bounced and fell onto the hot floor of the _Enterprise_.

The droning of the engines eased him into awareness, soothing him in a language he could not understand. Pain radiated from within, undefined and pervasive. He wanted to retreat back into the darkness, back into peace. He'd done his part, hadn't he? He'd saved the ship.

Why was he being punished?

The droning sound changed. It wasn't the engines comforting him. It was something else, something familiar and taunting.

_Move!_

He had to move. The radiation was killing him, destroying his cells, making it hard to breathe. He couldn't just lie still and die. His crew needed him. The ship was falling…

"…in Medical Center." The voice penetrated the thick cotton that packed his head. "The ship…fine."

"…falling," he said. It was impossible to make his tongue work.

"You're

…Fleet Medical Center on Earth."

He had to get out of the chamber. The radiation was killing him.

"I need you to lie still, Jim."

The pressure in his chest made breathing difficult. His body was so heavy. Why were they trying to keep him here? He needed to move.

"Give me 15cc's of…."

His head pounded.

A sharp sting on the side of his neck sent him into darkness.

"His vitals are stabilizing, Doctor," the nurse said.

McCoy knew that without her announcement. He felt Kirk's muscles relax beneath his sensitive hands. Kirk's breathing slowed. The sedative had done its job.

"Keep the cooling blanket on him," he ordered as he straightened up. "We have to give the new medication a chance to work."

"I've never seen a patient react so strongly before," she said.

McCoy had; his first year of residency on a space station in the Outer Frontier; a yeoman a few years younger than Jim. She was the first patient McCoy ever lost. Some nights, when he drank too much, he could feel her fingers clutching at his arm.

He sat down heavily in the chair by the bed.

"You look exhausted, Doctor," the nurse said. "I can stay with him if you need to get some sleep."

"I'm fine, Nurse, but some coffee wouldn't hurt."

"Yes, Doctor."

As she left, Boyce entered carrying a PADD.

"Well, at least we know why his liver was enlarged," Boyce said waving the PADD.

Yes, now they knew, McCoy thought bitterly. An allergic reaction to the medications he had prescribed for Kirk. But they discovered it too late.

"This is going to set him back a bit," Boyce said, staring down at Kirk's unconscious form.

"He'll love that."

Boyce looked at McCoy. "His cells regenerated at an amazing rate, but there are complications."

"I know."

"Genetically modified blood is illegal for a reason."

McCoy met Boyce's grey eyes. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

"Starfleet's confiscating all your data relating to this case."

It didn't surprise him, but it annoyed him just the same. He'd read that Khan's promise to use his blood to save Harewood's dying daughter had been the bribe to persuade Harewood to blow up the Kelvin Memorial Archive. McCoy could only imagine how the brass was fretting about the potential explosive repercussions of using engineered blood that not only cured people, but brought them back to life as well.

His head nodded. He really could use that cup of coffee.

Boyce looked around the room. "I get nervous when HQ gets involved in Medical. They're looking hard at this one."

McCoy's eyes narrowed as he studied Boyce. Was that anger he saw in the older man or exasperation? Was that why Boyce had taken such an interest in Kirk? Had the senior officer seen the writing on the wall?

"Jim's still a patient under Medical authority," McCoy said.

"He's a Starfleet officer first and a patient second. That's how it works." Boyce stared hard at McCoy. "HQ is securing his medical records. They've already scrubbed everything from the database. Everything that you prescribe or order for him is going straight up the ladder. Do you know what this means, Leonard?"

McCoy dropped his gaze to Kirk. "It means they're scared."

The door hissed open and Spock entered. The Vulcan, always proper, halted just inside the room.

"Am I interrupting, Doctors?" he asked.

"A welcome interruption, Mr. Spock," Boyce said and turned and left the room.

Spock waited until the doors closed before walking to Kirk's bed.

"I don't suppose you brought any coffee, Spock?" McCoy asked.

"Vulcans do not drink coffee, Doctor."

"That's what I was afraid you'd say." He rubbed his face with his hands then turned slightly to Spock, seeing him in the familiar science blue tunic. "You've been busy. I commed you two hours ago."

"An unforeseen delay at the dock."

"Getting busy up there."

"And down here, as well," Spock said, staring at the unconscious Kirk. "Something has happened."

"He had an allergic reaction to the medication."

"Severe?"

"Severe enough."

Neither man spoke. The only sound in the room was the soft beeping of the monitor.

"Your prognosis?" Spock inquired.

"He'll recover. He's just wearing his body down. Every set back is significant, and now it's even more significant."

Spock turned to look at him. "What do you mean, Doctor?"

"I'm tired, Spock."

The door opened again and the nurse entered with a steaming cup. The scent of fresh brewed coffee permeated the room. She handed it to McCoy.

"Is this real?" he asked, inhaling the scent.

She smiled. "I thought you could use it."

Real coffee, not replicated coffee. He had no idea where she had procured it. He held the cup as if he were cradling something precious.

"Is there anything else you need?" she asked.

"No, thank you."

She quietly left.

McCoy took his first sip and let the hot liquid rest on his tongue. When was the last time he'd had real coffee? Oh, yes, the doctors' lounge at Mercy Memorial. That seemed like a hundred years ago.

Spock hadn't moved, but watched McCoy, waiting. That was the thing about Vulcans, McCoy knew: They didn't forget a thing.

"Starfleet's scrubbing the records," he said. No sense being soft about it. Subtleties were lost on Vulcans. "They don't want the public to know about Khan's blood."

Spock digested that for a moment then turned back to Kirk. "That is most logical."

"And why is that?"

"Doctor, even you can see the potential harm in the population becoming aware of a substance that can virtually eliminate illness and death."

"I'm a doctor, I don't see harm in eliminating illness and death."

"Who would regulate it? How would it be used? Earth made a decision hundreds of years ago not to genetically modify humans and for just this reason. Khan is a perfect example of what happens when humans attempt to create a utopian society."

McCoy glared at him over his cup. "Jim wouldn't be alive without that blood."

"Yes and for that I am grateful." Spock turned now to meet McCoy's gaze. "But that poses its own quandary. You made the decision to bring Jim back from death. There were more than fifty other crewmembers who lost their lives and did not receive the same opportunity."

McCoy felt the blood drain from his face.

"Doctor, certainly you realize the necessity of Starfleet controlling this information for public safety, as well as your own."

None of this had occurred to McCoy. He'd seen his friend dead and seized the moment that had presented to him. He honestly hadn't thought of the other patients lying in the Sickbay…or in the morgue. It had been a last-ditch experiment, a longshot at best. And it could mean a court martial.

The cup in his hand was like an anchor. He set it down. "You think Starfleet HQ is better qualified to judge this than I am?"

"I am not judging you, Doctor. I am merely offering you my opinion."

McCoy looked at Kirk lying sedated, wracked with fever. He wondered if Kirk had any idea how much attention his resurrection had generated. And again the question rose from the dark floor of his mind: Why had Kirk gone into the warp core knowing he could not survive?

Damn, he was tired.

McCoy stood. "It doesn't really matter what either of us thinks; Starfleet is going to do whatever they feel is best, and there's not a damn thing we can do about it. My job is to treat Jim as a patient, to get him back on his feet and as healthy as I am able. I'll leave saving the Federation to Starfleet."

"Do not take this lightly, Doctor," Spock said. "We do not yet know the full repercussions of the decision we made."

_We made_, McCoy thought with irony. He was the doctor who had made the decision. He had drawn the blood, designed the serum. He had violated every ethical oath he had ever taken.

The truth was: He'd do it again to save Jim.

* * *

"You're unusually quiet," Kirk said. He was lying in bed, slightly raised, with another pounding headache. He'd asked McCoy to lower the filters on the windows to soften the blinding glare in the room, but now the room felt gray and still.

A small table was suspended near the bed. On it sat a glass of purified food – a sickening looking mixture of liquefied protein. Since he'd been refusing solid food, this was McCoy's next best option to entice him to eat. It had been sitting on the table for over an hour – untouched.

McCoy picked up a small scanner. "I'm a busy man, Jim."

"I was supposed to meet with Admiral Satori yesterday."

In a very calculated move, McCoy moved the glass closer to him. "I wouldn't complain about that if I were you. I'm sure he'll find his way over here soon enough."

"Something happened."

"Yes, something happened, you had an allergic reaction." McCoy moved the scanner over Kirk's abdomen. "You're supposed to be concentrating on recovering and not worrying about what's going on in the world."

Kirk watched McCoy closely. On the outside, the doctor presented himself as usual – a little short tempered and acerbic, but focused on the task at hand. Kirk would be the first to say that McCoy's bedside manner could use a little honing, but what he saw today was unease.

McCoy set the scanner aside and gently palpated Kirk's abdomen. "Is there any pain?"

"No and I'm not worrying. I'm thinking," Kirk said.

"And what are you thinking?" McCoy didn't sound the least bit interested.

"I think you're not telling me everything."

"Maybe I don't know everything." McCoy took one of his hands. "Squeeze my hand."

He squeezed.

"As hard as you can."

His hand began to shake and he let go with an exasperated puff of breath.

"Is there any pain when you squeeze?" McCoy asked.

"No," he said sternly. "And answer my question."

McCoy met his stare. "You didn't ask me a question."

"Bones," he said quietly, closing his eyes. His head was really pounding now and his arm had begun to tremble. "What are you trying to protect me from?"

McCoy turned away from him, putting away the scanner. He stood with his back to Kirk and did not move. When he said nothing, Kirk spoke.

"Bones, I caused the death of the head of Starfleet. We destroyed a Starfleet Class A vessel and all her crew. I crossed into Klingon territory, invaded their home planet, and destroyed three Klingon cruisers. Do you think I don't know there are things I'm going to have to answer for?"

"It's not just that, Jim." McCoy turned around to face Kirk. "The media is breathing down Starfleet's neck about Marcus and his damn war machine, and they don't even know what happened on Kronos. Starfleet wants this all to go away and here you are—"

McCoy stopped suddenly, staring down at him with a look that bordered on guilt.

"Here I am _what_? Alive?" He stared at McCoy. "Is that what this is about? The transfusion?"

"It's a big deal, Jim."

"Why?"

McCoy settled his shoulders. "Because Khan gave Harewood's dying daughter his blood in exchange for blowing up the archives. Because taking another being's blood without consent is immoral. Because genetically altering blood is illegal. Because using blood that can resurrect people is more dangerous than any long range torpedo Starfleet could design."

He hadn't thought about the blood, and he hadn't known about Harewood. But suddenly he could see exactly what Starfleet saw, the implications of a substance that could potentially create immortality – sold to the highest bidder. McCoy was right; in the wrong hands such an element would be very dangerous.

"Are you in trouble?"

McCoy almost smiled. "No, but Starfleet is erasing your medical records and everything to do with your treatment."

"You _are _in trouble."

"They're not happy with my decision…but they are happy with the results. Look, Jim, you're going to go back to being Captain of the _Enterprise_ and Starfleet's going to make this Khan element disappear. Hell, no one but us even knows he exists."

"And I'm hoping we can keep it that way," a deep voice said from the doorway.

Both men turned to see Admiral Satori walk in.

"You're early, Admiral," McCoy said.

Satori smiled. "I've been having trouble keeping this appointment. Dr. Boyce tells me that Captain Kirk is now well enough for an interview."

McCoy glared at the Admiral, but seemed to know that he was outranked and outmaneuvered. He looked back at Kirk who nodded his consent.

"An hour, Admiral," McCoy said and left the room.


	7. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Kirk's legs trembled to hold his weight, but still he stopped, pressing his left arm against his aching side. The bed was a few more steps away. A few more steps and he could lie down.

"Do you want to stop?" McCoy asked from somewhere behind him.

He shook his head. A sharp stabbing spread from his lower back, digging into his groin like a sharp-edged blade. Lifting his legs took a supreme effort, as did navigating the short distance from his bed to the door and back. His brain knew what he wanted to do, but his body seemed not to follow his instructions. So his walking, if he could call it that, was more like a clumsy shuffle.

He drew a cautious breath and made an effort to straighten. He closed his eyes to concentrate on lifting one leg; one step, then another.

Why was it so difficult to make his legs work? His head pounded with a familiar headache. He sucked in another breath. Every muscle and nerve was strung taut, but he steeled his determination. He'd be damned if he was going to quit.

The room tipped.

_Breathe._

A hand gripped his quavering arm, adding support. Just as he made it to the bed, his legs folded suddenly beneath him and he unceremoniously collapsed to the bed. He needed no prompting. He gratefully sank back onto the mattress, letting the softness take his weight.

Head pounding, perspiring and every muscle quivering, he closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing. There was nothing he could do for his back that throbbed and ached.

Hands lifted his legs back onto the bed and fussed about him. He didn't resist. He wore light-weight pants and a loose-fitting underwear shirt for cover. The clothing made him feel a little less vulnerable. He simply lay on top of the bed, catching his breath and trying to get the room to steady around him.

He heard the whirl of instruments and knew that McCoy was near. He opened his eyes and met the amused gaze of his friend.

"Told you it would be easier the second time," McCoy said.

"You enjoy your job too much, Bones."

"Is that all the thanks I get for rescuing you from Satori?"

It hadn't exactly been a rescue.

He hadn't made it all the way through the hour interview with Satori. After forty minutes, he'd begun to struggle to keep his eyes open and the Admiral had to abruptly end the interview. He was asleep by the time the nurse entered to check on him. When he woke, McCoy was there to usher him to his feet.

He closed his eyes again in a vain attempt to ease the pain in his head. _Why was it always so damn bright in this room? _He put a hand to his head and noticed his arm trembling. He let it fall back to the bed where someone – a nurse he presumed – took possession of it. He'd almost forgotten about the IV.

He heard McCoy give her some medical orders, something about keeping up his fluids intake, medications. He let the sound of their voices drift into the background of his thoughts and concentrated on lessening the pain in his head and back. McCoy would give him something if he asked for it, and most times when he did not, but he knew any pain meds would put him right to sleep and there was something he wanted to talk about with McCoy.

His heartbeat thundered within his chest and he tried to slow his breathing to dull the pounding in his head and back. He realized his muscles had tightened from the pain and he made a concentrated effort to relax. He focused on air filling his lungs with slow, steady breaths – in and out. His spine relaxed against the bed….

* * *

He slowly opened his eyes. The room was cast in shadows from the late afternoon sun. He'd fallen asleep. A blanket covered him. He felt sticky with perspiration. He looked around the room and saw Spock, wearing only the standard Starfleet black teeshirt, standing by the window, looking out.

"Is it that bad?" Kirk asked. His voice was rough and weak.

Spock turned his head to look at him. "Captain, I hope I did not disturb your rest."

"You did not, Mr. Spock." Kirk pushed himself up onto his elbows, testing his muscles and back. "We have to talk about what you do on your off-duty time."

"Captain?" Spock tilted his head, puzzled.

"It's not that I don't appreciate the company – I do, but…shouldn't you be spending your free time with Uhura?"

"Lieutenant Uhura, as with most of the _Enterprise_ crew, is taking a furlough. She has gone home to visit her family."

Kirk's arms began to tremble and he felt the first pinch of pain in his back. "You don't want to see your family?"

"My father is elsewhere engaged. His duty as Ambassador often takes him from home. In any event, there are too many duties with the _Enterprise_ under repair, and senior officers have pointedly not been offered furlough. We are to remain on Earth and available." Spock regarded him with concern. "Do you need assistance?"

His arms wouldn't hold him any longer. He fell back as they collapsed and bit back the cry of pain the sudden, jarring movement caused him.

_Damn it!_

He closed his eyes tightly against the pain and said, "No."

But Spock was at the bed and skillfully tapped the controls to incline it for him. Relaxing, he let the bed do the work then opened his eyes. "Thank you."

"Doctor McCoy informs me Admiral Satori visited you."

"I wouldn't call it a visit," he said drily.

"The Admiralty is anxious to conclude its investigation."

"I bet they are. When you set it all down on record no one looks good."

"I do not believe that is the reason for the investigation."

"No, but…things are going to change because of it." He laid his hand flat onto his abdomen in the hope of easing the dull cramping. He'd taken a few mouthfuls of the liquid brew McCoy called food, and promptly threw it up.

"We can only hope."

Something in the Vulcan's tone made him search the stoic features. It occurred to him that he really didn't know what his friend thought of all that had happened. McCoy had told him that Spock had risked his life in a fight to subdue Khan, but that was all. He knew that his friend had kept a close vigil as he lingered between life and death, and that somehow Spock had had a hand in Khan's returning to a cryogenic state.

"There are no simple answers, are there?" Kirk asked.

"There rarely are where humans are concerned."

Kirk lay still and studied Spock for a long moment. "What were you thinking about before I woke up?"

Spock was silent for a long time, and Kirk wasn't sure he was going to answer. Then Spock spoke in a tone Kirk had never heard.

"I was thinking about the tremendous loss of life because of one man's hatred."

For a moment, Kirk wasn't certain if Spock was referring to Khan, Marcus or Nero. Maybe it didn't matter. Weren't they all essentially the same? And hadn't he, Kirk, been just as guilty?

"Everything happened so quickly with the _Vengeance _and Khan…" Kirk dropped his gaze.

The two of them had said their goodbyes in those last few minutes of what they thought was Kirk's life. They had said what mattered and neither man need speak of it again. But what of the decisions Kirk had made? What did Spock's keen, analytical Vulcan mind think of them?

_A powerful hand on his shoulder spun him around._

"_**I cannot allow you to do this**__. One of my principle functions on this ship is to ensure that reason and logic prevail in the making of all decisions, something I firmly believe you are incapable of doing at this moment."_

"We never really got a chance to talk," Kirk said.

"During battle there are rarely moments for debriefing," Spock said.

He looked up at Spock. "I'm not talking about debriefing, Spock. I'm talking about what you think about what we did."

"You saved—"

"No," Kirk said, shaking his head. The movement ignited fresh pain in his skull. "I'm not talking about what we did at the end. I'm talking about what we did in the beginning."

"The decision to pursue Khan."

"Yes," Kirk said softly. "I wanted to kill Khan."

"As did I. It is not about what we wanted to do, but rather what we ultimately did do." Spock settled his shoulders. "Jim, Admiral Marcus feared the future. His fear drove him to sacrifice his own humanity, the very thing he sought to protect. To that end, he was willing to sacrifice every living being on the _Enterprise_."

"That wasn't his conviction, Spock. That was Marcus covering his ass. We knew too much to be allowed to live."

"Precisely."

He looked at his First Officer and friend. What was it that Marcus had said? "A simple manhunt." But there was nothing simple about it. Marcus had set a complex chain of events into motion, moving Khan and Kirk into position like chess pieces on a board. Kirk's own emotions had both condemned and freed them. He didn't know what to think of it all. He wasn't accustomed to winning by losing.

He closed his eyes, hoping his head would stop hurting.

* * *

"Damn it, Jim, you have to eat." McCoy stood at the side of Kirk's bed, scowling at his patient. Kirk had taken only a sip or two of the liquid nutrition then disregarded it completely.

Kirk lay in the bed. As thin and pale as he had become in the past weeks, he still managed to present himself in true command form. McCoy noted the set of his jaw and the way he squared his shoulders. Even under the direst circumstances Kirk was still a force to be reckoned with.

"I have a question," Kirk said.

"It better be what's for dinner." He looked down at the PADD and studied the recent results from this morning's blood draw. The plasma levels of fatty acids and ketone bodies were increasing and glucose levels were decreasing rapidly. Kirk's body was struggling to fuel the major organs, taking protein from tissue and muscle – something Kirk could not afford.

If Kirk didn't eat today, McCoy was going to have to make a difficult medical decision – one that he knew Kirk was not going to like.

"Why am I having trouble walking?" Kirk asked.

McCoy looked up from the PADD, stunned. The question took him by surprise. Part of him wanted to laugh aloud at the outrageous question. Given the amount of damage Kirk's body had sustained, McCoy was happy the man was breathing; walking was a bonus. But it was the first time Kirk seemed to take any interest in his own recovery, so McCoy gave him his full attention and put on his best physician's face.

"Jim, you've only been on your feet twice. That's hardly enough to make an accurate assessment of your walking abilities."

"I'm having trouble…making everything…work," Kirk said with obvious frustration. "I know what I want to do, but…it's like my body won't cooperate."

"Jim—"

"And my arms shake. I can't even hold a goddamn cup."

"Your system—"

"It's not about strength; it's something else."

"Will you shut up and listen to me!" His temper had finally surfaced, and he made an effort to get control. He set the PADD down. "The terminal level of radiation very nearly destroyed every cell in your body. It impacted every organ, every nerve path. The cells have healed, thanks to Khan's blood, but your brain is still trying to…rewire itself."

Kirk didn't like that answer, McCoy could tell.

"Some things are going to take more time than others," McCoy said.

"So I wait?" Kirk asked with a scowl.

"No, you do your physical therapy and you _eat_."

Kirk turned his head away from McCoy. "I want to take a shower."

One thing McCoy knew about Kirk: He was damn good at deflecting.

McCoy picked up the PADD again and began making notes. "I'll have one of the nurses give you a bed bath. You should enjoy that," he said drily.

"No. I want a shower."

McCoy's fingers paused on the PADD and he drew a steady breath. "Jim…."

"Bones, I just want—" Kirk closed his eyes and pressed his head against the pillow. His body had become rigid and his arm had begun to tremble. He looked like a man who wanted to hit something…or someone. And then he suddenly seemed to let go. "I just want a shower."

McCoy looked at him and felt a pang of guilt. Of course he wanted a shower. He'd been feverish and sweating, lying in the same bed for over two weeks. His hair was matted with sweat. Patients recovered faster when they were engaged in the healing process, had a pleasing environment, and felt comfortable. It was the smallest request, and one McCoy knew he couldn't refuse.

He looked at the private bathroom at the end of the room. Every medical instinct within him was advising against it. Kirk wasn't strong enough. His body didn't need the extra stress. He could barely stand; much less take a shower on his own.

"Okay," McCoy said quickly before he could come to his senses.

It was Kirk's turn to look surprised. "Really?"

"Yes and then you eat."

McCoy stepped out of the room without another word and returned with a hoverchair. He set it aside and went about the task of disconnecting Kirk's IV, leaving the catheter port still inserted into the vein. When he was finished, he stepped back, giving Kirk room, and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

Kirk carefully moved his legs over the edge of the bed and took a moment to orient to the new position. McCoy watched him closely, noting the throb of pulse in his carotid artery. He wanted to tell Kirk to take his time, but he held his tongue and waited.

Kirk drew a few steady breaths and straightened his spine, gathering his strength. He held up his hand with the catheter, silently demanding it be removed.

"No, that stays."

Kirk scowled and stood, swayed slightly on wobbly legs. McCoy resisted the urge to reach out and steady him. Jim needed the illusion of independence.

Kirk looked at the chair. "I can walk on my own."

"It's the chair or nothing."

Kirk hated being outmaneuvered as much as he hated depending on others. But he must have really wanted a shower, because he obediently slid into the waiting chair without another word.

_This is stupid. He's probably going to end up fainting in there._

The bathroom was small but functional. The sonic shower had elaborately calibrated controls for patient safety. McCoy punched in the settings: temperature, speed of sonic blast, duration. He set the cleanse function on light wash in deference to any sensitivity Kirk would have on his healing incisions. A bench automatically slid out of the wall in the narrow stall.

Without a word, McCoy helped Kirk out of his clothes, taking care not to force or rush him. Kirk's coordination was compromised and even removing the shirt proved cumbersome. McCoy eased him, naked and shivering, onto the bench.

"I've set the controls. Five minutes," McCoy said and stepped out of the stall.

"Five minutes!"

The door slid shut and automatically activated the shower. McCoy had set the door to partially obstruct Kirk; giving the man a modicum of privacy he so craved, but still allowing McCoy to keep a vital eye on his patient. He was able to see above Kirk's shoulders as the sonic shower rained down.

McCoy immediately commed a nurse to bring a fresh set of clothes and to change the bed linens, all the while watching Kirk. If he had worried about breaching Kirk's privacy and making the man feel self-conscious by watching him, he soon learned he didn't need to. Through the clear door he could see Kirk sitting with his eyes closed, letting the sonic water stream over him. Through the defused door, McCoy watched as the stress seemed to wash away from his friend. For a moment, McCoy could almost fool himself into thinking Kirk was his old self: unwounded, vibrant, so young.

The shower ended and still Kirk didn't open his eyes, keeping still during the drying sequence, as warm air gently evaporated the sonic water.

By the time the shower had ended, Kirk's fresh clothes had been handed to McCoy and the bed had been changed.

Getting Kirk into clothes was not as easy as getting him out of them. The shower, as McCoy had predicted, had enervated him; he was unsteady moving into the chair. McCoy gripped him securely and with practiced hands set him into the chair in one smooth move.

McCoy took only a moment to take a quick pulse, feeling the thunder of racing blood beneath his sensitive fingers.

_Damn it._

He struggled to get Kirk into the fresh clothes. Kirk's breathing was labored from exhaustion and he seemed to be phasing out, his lids heavy. As McCoy finished and stepped away he noticed Kirk was shivering.

_Yes, this was stupid._

He pushed the chair and Kirk in it into the main room. A nurse stood waiting at the side of the bed, an expression of disapproval on her face. McCoy had learned early in his medical career-don't piss off the nurses. And doing something they saw as their job pissed them off. She looked at Kirk who was wilting in the chair, then looked directly at McCoy. Wisely, she said nothing.

She helped him get a very wobbly Kirk back into bed. McCoy covered his shivering body.

"I hope this was worth it?" McCoy said in a tone that sounded more accusing than questioning.

"It was." Kirk's voice was faint and his head seemed to be too heavy to keep upright.

_Idiot._

He meant the both of them.

By the time he had reconnected the IV, Kirk was sound asleep.


	8. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Scotty entered the room with uncharacteristic hesitation. He stopped just inside the door and looked at Kirk who lay curled on his side, facing the window. He was never good in these situations. Hospitals made him uneasy. He hated the smells and the sounds, and the people inside were…fragile and unpredictable.

He had an aversion to fragile things. It was why he and Kirk had instantly connected. They were two people who could not be broken. Who else but the unbreakable would have attempted to transport onto a ship in warp without so much as a test?

"Live or die, Laddie, let's get on with it," he had told Kirk back on Delta Vega.

It wasn't like he had anything to lose. But Kirk had rescued him from a life of mediocrity on a desolate station where he had been dumped and forgotten. Appropriated him for an insane mission against impossible odds, and now he was chief engineer of the best ship in the Fleet.

"Are you going to stand in the doorway or go in?" McCoy asked quietly.

Scotty looked at him, uneasy. "I—I don't want ta disturb him."

McCoy softened. "You aren't disturbing him, Mr. Scott. He can use the company."

"His system is struggling to get going," McCoy said. "At least he's eating now."

Scotty remained in place. He really wasn't good at this. What was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to act? Jim had saved his life by preventing him from going into the radiation-filled warp core. He had saved all their lives, and now he was struggling to recover.

Scotty jumped when McCoy put a hand on his shoulder and gently pushed him, the door sliding shut behind him. Kirk roused at the sound, and turned to look at him. For a moment, he felt like the proverbial child with his hand caught in the cookie jar.

He was good at fixing engines. He was just as good at getting out of trouble as he was at getting into it. He was good at getting drunk and starting fights. But this….

"Scotty." Kirk's voice was rough and weak.

Scotty pulled himself out of his reverie, aware he'd been staring. "Jim, I dinna mean to disturb your sleep."

Kirk smiled softly. "I wasn't sleeping."

Scotty made no move to walk to the bed. He watched as Kirk gingerly rolled onto his back, pressing a hand to his stomach.

_He looks so pale and thin._

He hadn't seen Kirk since they laid him in the cryotube. McCoy had warned him that Jim was recovering but was very weak. Scotty hadn't known what to expect, exactly, but the man in the bed looked more than just ill. How was it possible that the young man looked worse now than when he was dead?

Kirk's eyebrows rose slightly in query, an invitation.

_Move, you bloomin' idiot!_

He walked to the bed too quickly and too loudly, feeling awkward and self-conscious. The sound of the monitor played like an out-of-tune orchestra in the background, making him all too aware that he was in a hospital. "I came by two days ago, but you were sleeping."

Kirk nodded. "Tell me about our ship. How is she?"

At that, Scotty beamed and straddled the chair. He spent the next twenty minutes giving Kirk a detailed report on damage and repairs, adding in all the enhancements he wanted to make and how Starfleet was fighting him point by point.

Kirk chuckled softly at the end. "Never satisfied with what Starfleet Engineering has to offer."

"Well," he said with a mischievous grin, "she's gotta last five years in deep space."

Kirk frowned.

"We're gonna get the new program, Jim. I know it. I want _Enterprise_ at her gleamin' best."

"Don't count your chickens, Scotty. Command hasn't even put this Khan issue to bed, yet. I doubt they're looking to elevate _Enterprise _to a premier initiative."

"I don't know, sir. Be a good way of distracting Federation citizens from the war Marcus tried to start." He shifted his weight. "Give them something to champion – new worlds, new civilizations and all a'that."

"Maybe," was all Kirk said.

The room seemed small and confined, pressing against him. Scotty shifted on the chair, suddenly claustrophobic.

The doors hissed open and a nurse entered. She smiled pleasantly as she walked past him to inspect the medication dispensing machine. She tapped a few buttons without comment and made a quick inspection of the IV in Kirk's arm.

Scotty didn't know where to look. If he looked away, it meant he was uncomfortable – which he was. But to watch the examination seemed too intrusive. It was clear Jim was uncomfortable, in constant pain and very weak. He watched as Jim winced, shifting positions slightly.

He desperately wanted to leave the room. He didn't want to see Jim this way.

And suddenly he was standing near the warp core on _Enterprise_, looking through the sealed access door as Kirk crawled toward him. His mind raced-how long had it been? But time didn't matter. The radiation levels were lethal. Jim was a dead man.

"It's all right, Scotty," Kirk said.

The nurse had gone, leaving Scotty on display in the cramped, undecorated room, staring at his friend. He felt heat rise in his cheeks, but he forced himself not to look away. His mouth was dry, his throat tight.

"I would have gone in there with you," he heard himself say.

"I know."

He couldn't look away. "I feel like I owe you an apology."

Kirk smiled at that. "I should be apologizing to you. You were right about the torpedoes."

Scotty shook his head. "I'm an engineer, Jim. I don't know about wars and diplomacy. I leave those decisions to Command. But I do know what we did was right. We stopped Khan and Marcus. The diplomats and bureaucrats can take care of the rest."

Kirk nodded. His eyes seemed heavy.

"_Ach_, I've tired you. I should be goin'."

"Scotty."

He stopped, already turned and one step away from the bed. He looked at Jim.

"Thank you."

But he had done nothing, his mind protested. Jim had taken it all on himself, paying the ultimate price without hesitation. Since then, Scotty had watched the media frenzy from which he hoped Jim was shielded. The public had latched on to Starfleet's youngest captain like a lifeline for a drowning man. They had not seen what Jim had sacrificed, how agonizing were his decisions. They only saw the unbreakable hero.

He simply nodded.

* * *

McCoy braced Kirk as he vomited violently into the small basin. The muscles beneath McCoy's hands were rigid as Kirk's body convulsed to expel the contents of his stomach. Though they were only introducing purified liquid food, Kirk's digestive system still rejected it.

Curled onto his side and gripping the edge of the bed as an anchor, Kirk continued to convulse with dry heaves, his body shaking from the strain. McCoy nodded to the nurse who removed the small basin. McCoy leaned into Kirk.

"Breathe, Jim. Try to relax."

Sweat poured off Kirk's face, now colored a ghastly shade of gray. If he heard McCoy, he seemed not to show it, caught in the waves of convulsions that wracked him.

"15ccs of portapheline," McCoy ordered.

The anti-emetic medicine should ease the nausea and vomiting. The drug had a mild sedative effect that also controlled the spasms. McCoy hadn't wanted to use it because of potential side-effects, and Jim's system had become even more sensitive to medications since the radiation.

Kirk's spine arched, his fingers twisted into the sheets.

McCoy wrapped an arm around Kirk's chest, trying to support him. "Easy now. Just relax," he said softly next to Kirk's ear.

_Don't fight this so much._

The monitor sounded an alarm. Kirk's oxygen saturation was dropping.

"Tri-ox, stat!" he ordered.

The nurse was quick. The hypo appeared in his free hand in seconds, and he pushed the medication into Jim's carotid artery. The alarm silenced and Kirk drew a few shaky breaths. The convulsing eased, paused.

The nurse administered the anti-emetic into the IV as McCoy continued to hold his patient. A few more sporadic spasms – weaker and shorter – and then stillness.

It was over. Kirk was heavy in McCoy's arms and he gently eased him to lie on his back on the bed. Kirk's head lulled to the side and he made no movement as McCoy settled him.

"Okay?" McCoy asked.

"Oh, yeah, I'm great," Kirk managed. His lips, like the rest of his face, had lost all color.

"It's gonna get better, Jim."

"I hate what you do for a living," Kirk said weakly, his eyes closing.

"I know you do."

He stayed with his friend long after Kirk had fallen asleep from exhaustion. He was standing at the window, staring at nothingness when Spock entered.

The scenery out the window seemed stark and barren– buildings of concrete and glass set against a featureless blue sky. There was nothing natural about it. It was industrial, metropolitan, and he hated it. For the first time in four years he missed Georgia.

He punched the controls and the filters lowered. He turned to look at Spock. "You're in dress."

Spock did not comment, but looked at Kirk who lay sleeping. "He is still not able to process the Dysphagia Diet."

"Food stayed down longer than the last time," he said, following the Vulcan's gaze to the very pale and utterly still Kirk. "First I couldn't get him to eat, now I can't get him to accept the damn benzodiazepine."

He had thought to slow things down for Kirk once he saw how violently the young man's system reacted to food, but Kirk was now determined to eat and win the battle with his body.

"You know how Jim is," McCoy said with a sigh, "once he gets something into his head. …I wish there was something we could do."

"Perhaps a different mix of liquid foods with fewer proteins."

"He needs a high mixture of fatty acids and proteins or his body starts leaching from itself. His entire G.I. system was stripped by the radiation." He shook his head. "It'll get better. He just has to go through this process, Spock, cruel as it is."

"I realize. I thought to make it easy on him."

McCoy snorted despite himself. "Jim Kirk doesn't do 'easy.' You should know that by now."

"It has been three weeks. I had hoped his recovery would be more pronounced."

"Don't you start, Spock," McCoy said tersely. "He's impatient enough for both of you. I never said he was going to recover in a few days. This is going to take weeks, maybe months before he's anywhere near ready for active duty."

"Doctor, please lower your voice."

McCoy stared at him nonplussed. "Jim is under so deep from exhaustion that you could fire a phaser on full in this room and it wouldn't disturb him."

"Let us hope it does not come to that."

McCoy stared at him for a moment. "If that's a joke, it's terrible."

A single elegant brow lifted.

McCoy put a hand on the back of his neck and rubbed at the tension. "I'm tired, Spock. It's days like this that I long for a good old-fashion appendectomy. Why are you in dress uniform anyway? I can't believe there's anything you could possibly tell HQ that they don't already know."

"They have concluded their findings on Admiral Marcus." Spock did not elaborate further.

"And?" McCoy prompted impatiently. Getting information from the Vulcan was often like pulling teeth.

"There was a public briefing."

McCoy drew an impatient breath. "Spock, I'm really tired. If you've got something to say, just say it."

"Admiral Marcus has been posthumously discharged with dishonor from Starfleet. There are five other officers who will be court-martialed for their complicity in building the Vengeance and awakening Khan."

_Dishonorably discharged? The __**least **__that bastard deserved. Hundreds of people dead and maimed because of his war-mongering._ _And the charges don't even take into account that he created a monster to serve his own_ _demons: Khan._ _But wasn't Starfleet forgetting something?_

McCoy stared at him. "And what of Marcus' attempt to kill us? Does Starfleet have anything to say about that?"

"No."

McCoy stepped away from the window, cursing. _Of course not_, he thought bitterly. _Why comment on a little thing like internecine terrorism? Starfleet would love it if all just went away, but there was a goddamn starship in half the buildings at Fleet headquarters, too big to sweep under the rug._

He glanced at Kirk. "What about Jim?"

"Captain Kirk's actions are deemed heroic and just. He is being awarded the Medal of Honor."


	9. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Kirk's body shook as the spasms subsided. He had held the food down longer this time and the vomiting had been less violent. The nurse removed the basin and he felt McCoy's steady hand on his shoulder as support. He was breathing heavily from exertion and remained still, wanting to be certain the spasms had ceased.

When he felt it safe, he slowly rolled onto his back and pushed his head into the pillow. His headache was in full swing, an anvil pounding mercilessly against his temples. He squinted against the pain. McCoy kept a hand on him and he did not protest.

"Headache?"

He closed his eyes in answer. The storm of rushing blood and convulsing muscles was subsiding, leaving him exhausted again.

"Those are the side-effects of the anti-emetic. I can stop giving it to you, but your nausea and vomiting will probably get worse."

"Those are my choices?"

"I'm afraid so."

"You have a lovely profession," he said.

"How about this - you walked to the door and back without falling down, that's progress."

Kirk dared to open his eyes just enough to see McCoy. "Don't try and cheer me up, Bones."

"I wouldn't dream of it," McCoy said. He pressed a scanner to Kirk's chest and studied the readouts on his PADD.

"That's the fourth time you've scanned my chest in two days."

McCoy glanced up briefly from his PADD. "Don't let it go to your head."

McCoy's tone was light, but Kirk could sense the seriousness beneath it, the way McCoy's mouth tightened as he studied the readings, the intensity in the eyes.

"What's wrong?" Kirk asked.

McCoy withdrew the scanner. "Nothing serious."

"But something."

The doctor set his instruments aside and addressed Kirk. "There's some minor damage to your heart – very minor and treatable."

Damage to his heart? It wasn't enough that his insides were trying to come out and his head was making a play to explode, but now his heart had damage? He let out a heavy breath and turned toward the window.

He was never getting out of this place.

"How long have I been here, Bones?"

"Three weeks."

Two he remembered not at all, and one he wished he could forget. He laid his hand over his stomach. Why didn't they have a decent view from the window?

"Are you hurting?" McCoy asked.

He shook his head. As tired as he was, he was also sore in what seemed like every muscle and bone. Physical therapy once a day was giving him an entirely new set of aches; vomiting several times a day didn't help, either. He shifted restlessly in the bed, trying to find a comfortable position and failing.

"Here," McCoy said gently.

He jerked slightly at the unexpected movement as the bed lowered. He looked at McCoy.

"It's all right," McCoy said, leaning over him.

He scowled. "Bones, I don't want to lie down."

"Just be quiet."

He made a frustrated sound, but was too tired to argue. He hated not having any control over what was being decided for him. Though he deeply trusted McCoy, the process of being treated for any illness or injury was, in his opinion, degrading. When his bed was level, he looked up at McCoy with annoyance.

"Roll onto your side," McCoy ordered.

What was McCoy up to? He stared at the doctor, uncertain. When he didn't move, the older man gently urged him onto his side. A bolster appeared and McCoy tucked it near him, guiding him to lie almost on his stomach.

"Bones…"

His protest was silenced as McCoy's hands began to massage the back of his shoulders, moving smoothly across his aching muscles.

"Just relax," McCoy said. "You're so tense."

He made a conscious effort to relax his muscles. He suddenly realized how tense his body had become, how taut his muscles. When was the last time he had felt relaxed and easy? Was it with the Caitian twins? He had been on the top of the world that night, easily charming them into his bed. Not only relaxed and confident, but in top physical form, as well. He couldn't even remember what it felt like to be virile and energized, sexually potent.

He breathed into the feel of the massage, letting McCoy's gentle motions ease him. He closed his eyes and began to relax.

McCoy felt the muscles loosen under his ministrations. His hands easily glided over Kirk's upper back. He could feel the ribs and bones beneath the skin. Kirk had lost a good bit of weight and muscle in the past few weeks, but McCoy was just now realizing how this illness had taken its toll. Kirk's normally athletic body was shockingly frail.

He had given Jim a medical exam while the ship had been stranded near Kronos. He recalled the hard muscles, bunched with tension. Even battered after hand-to-hand combat with Klingons, Jim still appeared healthy and strong.

His fingers massaged the muscles along the spine.

Kirk jerked suddenly.

"Is that tender?" he asked, frowning.

"Mmm."

The vertebrae were healing, but the muscles and tissue around them were still obviously tender. He made a mental note to speak to the physical therapist about focusing on Kirk's back during the next regimen. Building the muscles along the spine would strengthen Kirk's back and ease the pain of the inflamed tissue.

For now he moved his hands back to Kirk's shoulder, working in long strokes until the muscles relaxed again.

"Is that better?" he asked.

"Yes."

The word was slightly slurred and it made McCoy smile. As he moved down to the lower back, he stayed away from the sensitive area and worked Kirk's right hip. Lying in bed often caused pressure ulcers on the skin, and the muscles to store lactic acid, both of which contributed to a patient's discomfort.

After everything Kirk had been through, it gave McCoy pleasure to be able to relieve some of his friend's pain. He had intended only to massage Kirk's back and shoulders and offer some relief, but Kirk's body seem to be like soft clay in his hands, and, since Kirk did not object, he continued.

The door hissed open and he spared a glance at Spock who stood politely just inside the room. If the Vulcan thought his activity unusual, he did not show it. Maybe it was because of the man in the bed and the respect both men had for him. Maybe it was simply Vulcan courtesy. Whatever the reason for Spock's silence, McCoy didn't care.

He had seen the look on Kirk's face when he had told him of the heart damage. He had seen that look before on patients in his care – a strange mix of mournfulness and despair.

As he finished the massage, Kirk drew a deep, cleansing breath and rolled onto his back, looking sleepy and content.

"Thanks, Bones," he said.

"You're welcome."

Kirk frowned slightly. "Spock, how long have you been there?"

"Not long, Captain," Spock said and walked to the bed.

McCoy retrieved his PADD and logged his medical orders to the physical therapist and the cardiologist.

"You look like a man on a mission, Spock," Kirk said in a sleepy voice.

"I have been informed that Admiral Komack wishes to see you."

_What?_ McCoy's head snapped up from his PADD. "When did this happen? And why the hell wasn't I informed?"

"Forty-five minutes ago and I believe you have the request in your office."

_Son of a bitch._ "Jim, I can delay them a while longer."

Kirk's smile barely made it to his lips. "I doubt that. Komack is determined to see me sooner rather than later."

"Jim, you're still recovering," McCoy said. "You can ask for an extension."

"I do not think the Admiral has made this a request," Spock said.

"No," Kirk said. "I don't suppose he did."

* * *

McCoy muttered a curse and stabbed at the console to shut off the screen. Komack's assistant was nice enough, but he was a by-the-book, no-nonsense career officer that refused to take no for an answer. Spock had been right: Komack had not made a request.

McCoy leaned back in his chair in the office he'd occupied for the last three weeks and looked out the large window at the inner courtyard of the complex. Doctors and nurses sat around small tables, their white uniforms stark against the greenery that peppered the courtyard. Another flawless day in San Francisco…as long as you weren't looking at the Bay where parts of the _Vengeance _were still lodged inside concrete and steel.

He watched the scene in front of him with a detached interest. His colleagues were laughing and smiling, sipping their drinks, taking full advantage of a break. He remembered what that was like to sit in the sun and bullshit with his fellow physicians, confer about a patient or simply forget for a few minutes about all the pain around him. Those minutes had been like lifelines to him, a way of balancing his profession. He hadn't always been good at it. It's what had cost him his marriage.

The terminal beeped, notifying him of an incoming message or alert. With reluctance, he glanced at the screen. It was a reminder that he was scheduled to take the graveyard shift in the Emergency Room tonight. The facility was short of doctors, and he had been unceremoniously drafted into service by the head of the Center.

With _Enterprise _out of commission for the next nine to twelve months, he was due to be reassigned for duties. It was only Kirk's immediate needs and unique circumstances that had kept McCoy somewhat isolated from the deconstruction of the crew. He'd oversee the refit in Sickbay, but that was the extent of his duties as far as _Enterprise _was concerned. Once Kirk was fully recovered, he had no reason not to be quickly pressed into service as a medical doctor.

The door to the office swooshed open and Boyce strode in. Without being invited, he took the seat across from McCoy's desk and made himself at home. Relaxed and confident, Boyce stretched out his legs and laced his fingers together, resting them on his chest.

It annoyed McCoy that the man took these liberties, as if they were long-time friends and he had earned the right to be so familiar. But Boyce never came to see him without having an agenda. He wondered what it was that brought the senior doctor into his office this time.

"Looks like our boy is eating," Boyce said.

"Yes."

"That's a good sign. I was worried we were going to have to do something drastic."

The word 'we' pricked at McCoy, but he held his tongue and watched the older man in silence.

"Concerning the systolic heart failure, I was hoping he would avoid that."

As did McCoy, but with the amount of physical stress Kirk had been through, it wasn't a surprise. "It's only in the right ventricle, and minor."

Boyce nodded. "Going to be a long recovery."

Long and slow, but Kirk had nothing but time now. By the time the _Enterprise_ was refitted and repaired, Kirk should be able to take command.

"I heard he's getting the Medal of Honor. Does he know?"

McCoy shook his head. "I suspect that's why Komack wants to see him."

"Did you see the press release? Quite a show."

He had seen it, as much as he tried to avoid it. The hospital was buzzing with the news and it was just by the grace of whatever deity watched over them that Jim had not heard about it. It was the first Medal of Honor Starfleet had recommended in five years, and that made it an event.

Boyce sighed as his gaze drifted to the window. "This used to be my old office. Back then it was patients filling the commons, not medical personnel. 'Course the Center was smaller."

McCoy studied Boyce with new interest. It occurred to him that he hadn't seen Boyce spending any casual time with other doctors. Boyce had been in Starfleet since medical school. In all those years, McCoy found it odd that the man hadn't formed any real friendships.

"You serve on any starships?" McCoy asked suddenly.

Boyce perked up and smiled. "Oh, yes. Did my residency on the _Atlanta_, the first non-human ship commissioned. Sickbays were small and given only the essentials, not like they are now. Took quite a bit of arguing from us to convince Starfleet to put more state-of-the-art medical equipment on the ships."

"I didn't know that."

"Yes, we were considered "non-essentials," until one of the starships harbored a virus that tore through the ship and killed eighty percent of the crew. They wouldn't even let the damn ship dock for fear of spreading the virus."

He had read about that at the Academy. It was part of Fleet medical history on disease control, and here was a man who had been there. And for the first time, McCoy realized that Boyce was getting close to retirement, one of the reasons he no longer served on a ship. He'd spent the last of his career days at the Center or teaching classes at the Academy. Then he'd been decommissioned like a ship that had outlasted its usefulness.

For a moment, McCoy saw himself looking into a mirror as he looked at Boyce. Without another thought, he reached into the drawer to his left and pulled out a bottle of bourbon and two small glasses. He set them on his desk and poured two fingers full. He pushed one of the glasses toward Boyce and held his up for a salute.

Boyce eyed the glass briefly and then picked it up.

"To fighting the fight," McCoy said.

Boyce nodded once and downed the shot like a pro.

* * *

"Think about it, Captain," Komack said in a firm but gentle voice.

Kirk knew that tone. It meant _Think about it, but do it my way_. It was a soft order, but an order nonetheless. He nodded once, because he was still an officer of Starfleet and Komack was…well, Komack. His body sank into the mattress as exhaustion suddenly fell on him. They had been talking for over an hour.

"I've tired you. I'll leave you to your rest." Komack executed a curt nod from the foot of Kirk's bed and did a smart about-face.

Kirk turned away from the departing Admiral and looked out the window.

The Medal of Honor.

How in the hell could they be giving him the Medal of Honor? Was that what they were giving out medals for now? Getting people killed?

There was a time, not too long ago when he would have beamed at the honor; now it seemed empty and strangely inappropriate. He had disobeyed a direct order from the head of Starfleet and had gotten dozens of crewmembers killed.

"_It was an illegal order, Kirk," Komack said. "You are to be commended on your ethics."_

Where was this flexibility when he had decided to break Starfleet rules and save an entire race of people on Nibiru? That decision had earned him a demotion and the loss of his ship.

"_Had you fired those torpedoes on the Klingons, it would have started an all-out war," Komack said._

Sure, but he hadn't been thinking about war; he had been thinking about revenge. Starfleet was simply changing the rules to fit their needs. Something Jim Kirk had made his short career doing. So, where did that leave him?

"_Command has decided to allow your rank as captain to remain," Komack said._

"_And Enterprise?"_

"_Still under your command." Komack's expression changed to one of amusement. "You seem surprised."_

"_Perplexed, Admiral. I did everything wrong during this mission. I got a lot of people killed and probably made relations worse with the Klingons."_

_Komack waved a dismissive hand. "Relations can't be worse with the Klingons. Let the politicians handle them. They have their own spin on things. That's not for us to decide. We're explorers and, when we need to be, the peacekeepers of the Federation."_

But he hadn't kept the peace. His very presence on Kronos had resulted in the destruction of three Klingon cruisers and the death of two of his own men. The only thing right he had done was to stop Khan, and maybe he had stopped what Marcus had started.

"_You're a hero, Kirk, whether you want to be or not. Starfleet needs a hero right now. We're awarding you Starfleet's highest honor in recognition of your conspicuous gallantry, intrepidity and bravery when facing insurmountable odds."_

He closed his eyes, feeling the light pounding in his head.


	10. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

McCoy stood at the door with his arms crossed lightly over his chest, watching Kirk with concern. Kirk sat in a chair by the window, a blanket covering him. He had finally been able to keep his food down and digested in the past two days and that was helping him to gain strength.

Physically, Kirk was on his way to recovery with promising results, enough so that the man could spend an hour twice a day sitting up in a chair and out of the bed he had come to hate. Even the minor heart damage had been successfully treated and was healing nicely. He still had a long road to full recovery, and all of it was dependent on no further setbacks and a cooperative patient who followed his doctor's orders.

And therein lay the problem.

McCoy watched as Kirk shifted awkwardly in the chair, wincing before settling himself back into the soft cushions. In a moment, he had resumed his former posture – stoic and unaware.

There had been times in the past three weeks when McCoy had feared that he would never see Kirk out of bed. So unstable and close to death, every breath Kirk drew had been another promise. McCoy had been a doctor long enough to know how quickly patients could turn for the worse, how uncertain even the most promising prognosis could be, and so he had come to look at Kirk with anticipation laced with dread.

It was Kirk's silence that really bothered McCoy.

As he gained strength and spent more of his day alert, he had begun to reflect more on the events that had brought him to this place. And then there were the nightmares, which he had tried unsuccessfully to hide from McCoy-the sensitive and sophisticated monitors that surrounded Kirk recorded everything. Though McCoy didn't need the machines to tell him what he could plainly see: The haunted look in the blue eyes, muting their brilliance by degrees.

It was more than nightmares that caused Kirk's his self-imposed silence. He had not discussed what Komack had said, but an announcement had been made by the President of the Federation that Kirk was to get the Medal of Honor, and McCoy had to assume that that also played into Kirk's introspection.

This is where McCoy had failed him.

McCoy had hoped the seclusion of the Medical Center would protect Kirk, but the outside world, despite his best efforts, kept interrupting the healing solitude. Starfleet Medical was trying to make McCoy's 'super-blood' serum disappear unnoticed out the back door, while Starfleet Command was making a show of the young captain's bravado at the front door.

It was all smoke and mirrors.

_Goddamned bureaucrats. Leech a man's blood while he lay dying._

He felt his temper rise. They all were just pawns to Starfleet, expendable pieces that were moved conveniently from position to position. What did they know of Jim Kirk and what he had really suffered? What did they know of how he lived?

McCoy glanced up at the monitor and frowned. Though Kirk was not in bed, his vitals were still being relayed to the monitor via a mobile band on Kirk's wrist. The monitor told him Kirk had been in the chair too long.

He walked over to the window. "Not much of a view, is it?"

Kirk shivered.

McCoy frowned. "Are you cold?"

Kirk didn't respond.

"A few more days and you should be able to go outside." McCoy leaned a shoulder against the window pane and studied Kirk. "I thought you'd jump at that chance. Normally I'd have to put you in restraints to keep you in bed. Can I look forward to this newfound cooperation in the future?"

"What do you want, Bones?"

The flat dismissal was like a punch in the gut to McCoy.

"You've been quiet. Is everything all right?"

"What could possibly be wrong?"

_Uh-oh._ McCoy's eyes narrowed. "I'm not good at guessing, Jim. Why don't you tell me what's on your mind."

For a long time, Kirk said nothing and continued to stare out the window. McCoy waited. He knew a good bit about how Kirk worked. The man could be stubborn and determined – a combination that usually won him against his opponents. He was waiting, McCoy knew, for McCoy to give up and go away. McCoy remained in place and the silence filled the room. And then Kirk spoke.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked quietly, not looking at McCoy.

The question surprised McCoy. He focused intently on Jim, wondering what Kirk knew and how much. "Tell you about what, Jim?"

Kirk looked up at him with a sharp stare. "Everything."

So that was it? Komack must have spilled the beans and told the kid all the details. No wonder Jim had been so silent.

He relaxed his shoulders, feeling an odd sense of relief that he no longer had to protect their secret. Kirk was bound to make his discovery sooner or later. McCoy had just hoped it would be later, when Kirk was stronger and more resilient.

"You were very sick," he said carefully, steadily meeting Kirk's penetrating gaze. "They weren't things you needed to know."

"That should have been my decision."

"No, it was mine. May I remind you that you were unconscious for most of this and trying damn hard to die?"

"I'm not dying now! What were you going to do? Keep me in this room until they rebuilt Starfleet Headquarters, or did you think I was going to miss the fact that half of Starfleet HQ was buried under a ship?"

"Is that was this is about? Khan flying that damn ship into Fleet headquarters?"

"It's not about the ship." Kirk pressed his right arm tightly against his side. His face pinched with tension. "It's about you thinking I need a keeper."

"That's not what I think," McCoy said evenly, trying to keep control of the conversation. "I have a responsibility to you as your doctor."

"Didn't you think it was important enough for me to know? I'm the reason Khan's still alive."

"No, you aren't. There's plenty of blame to go around in this, but Khan gets to take responsibility for the lives he took – you don't." McCoy noticed Kirk's left arm shaking and realized this was not the time or place to have this conversation. "You're tired—"

"Don't change the subject. I want to know why you didn't tell me." Kirk breathed heavily, agitated and restless.

"A lot of things happened, Jim, but knowing everything wasn't going to change anything for you."

"Then why didn't you tell me!"

The monitor sounded with the increase in Kirk's heart rate and respiration.

"Jim, calm down."

"I'm the captain. Whether you like it or not, I'm the one ultimately responsible for everything that happens under my command." He bent slightly, pressed his arm tightly against his side and released a short gasp.

McCoy leaned over him as the alarms sounded loudly. "Take shorter breaths. Don't struggle so much."

The door hissed open and a nurse hurriedly entered in response to the alarms.

"I don't need a damn nursemaid!" And with that he tightly closed his eyes. His breath came in wheezing gasps.

"Get me 10 cc's of Dirium Complex," he ordered the nurse and put a supporting hand on Kirk's shoulder. He felt the trembling beneath his hands and cursed under his breath.

The nurse handed him the loaded hypo and he drove it home expertly against the side of Kirk's neck. For once, Jim did not protest. But then again, McCoy doubted he could even feel it. And just as he completed that thought, Kirk resisted, raising a hand to McCoy's arm to push the offending support away.

"It's all right," McCoy said softly.

Kirk's hand dropped, not out of compliance, but for lack of strength. The medication, which was a combination of sedation and beta-blockers, always won in the end. Within seconds Kirk's body softened and his breathing steadied.

Still supporting Kirk, McCoy glanced at the monitor and waited until the vitals stabilized. He hadn't expected such a volatile reaction. Kirk was still an enigma to him, at once boyish and charming, then suddenly deeply sensitive or obstinately angry. Whatever Kirk felt, he always felt it deeply and completely; there was no middle ground with him.

The nurse had called for an orderly, and together they transferred Kirk to the bed. Once settled in, McCoy covered him and took a few moments to watch the sleeping form. In the quiet repose of sleep, Kirk looked amazingly young. Even though he was still pale and drawn, the innocence of sleep seemed to transcend his illness. Watching him now, McCoy was reminded of the young cadet who had defied the Kobayashi Maru test, and had stood punished and forsaken on the tarmac as the rest of the cadets rushed to their assigned ships.

That was the moment when McCoy took a page from Kirk's playbook: He had set aside his own stringent set of rules to defy Starfleet in an act of faith in the young man who had ultimately saved all their lives.

McCoy reached to gently stroke Kirk's hair back. They had both been pariahs – not making friends easily, outcasts among their own kind, independent and defiant. He dropped his hand, took a deep breath and stood silently by the bed. This wasn't about Khan or Marcus. It wasn't even about Kirk being sidelined, or McCoy's choice to sequester him from the outside world.

McCoy was going to need help. There was only one other to whom Kirk would listen.

* * *

Spock sat in the chair by Kirk's bed and studied the sleeping human. For weeks he had waited by this man's side, waiting for Kirk to awaken, thinking that was all that was needed to restore his sense of peace, to give him some assurance that their relationship remained intact…that Kirk was still his friend.

He had never had a friend. He had not been accepted on Vulcan because of his human half, and he had not been accepted on Earth because of his Vulcan heritage. A child of neither world, an alien to both, it was Kirk who seemed to accept him for who he was.

As he watched, a frown marred the smooth features of Kirk's face and his eyes moved rapidly beneath the shut lids, bruised a pale gray. The monitor showed an increase in heart rate.

_Dreaming._

McCoy had told him that Kirk's sleep had been interrupted nightly with nightmares – none of which Kirk was willing to share. But Spock could imagine what hellish scenarios the man's mind could conjure, given what he'd been through with Khan. It was not, in Spock's observation, the nature of Jim Kirk to analyze and reflect on the decisions he made, and so Spock was perplexed by the nightmares.

The Vulcan had spent hours in meditation contemplating his own actions regarding Khan and Kirk, as was his nature. He had not been able to draw any firm conclusions, except the obvious, which was that he had allowed his emotions to assume control. His father had once told him that emotions ran deep in their culture, more deeply than in humans. He now believed that his father was correct.

Kirk made a low sound and suddenly opened his eyes with a start, gasping for breath. Spock waited for Kirk to get oriented. It took only a few moments for the blue eyes to clear, then soften as they focused on Spock.

"Good morning, Captain."

Kirk frowned and looked around the room. "Morning? What time is it?"

"Oh-nine-hundred hours."

Kirk closed his eyes and let out a soft breath. "McCoy's getting too free with those sedatives."

"I believe the doctor is doing what he thinks is best for your recovery."

Kirk grunted, opened his eyes and, without moving his head, shifted his gaze to Spock. "I suppose he sent you to keep watch."

"_He'll listen to you, Spock," McCoy had said. "You might be the only one who really understands what he's going through."_

"The doctor thought you might like some company…someone who could offer a different perspective."

Kirk shifted positions and stared toward the foot of the bed. "I'm not angry with Bones. I'm just...angry."

Spock digested the words. Despite his mother being human and his father being Ambassador, he knew very little about the cultural behavior of Earth's native population. What had Kirk to be angry about? He had saved the _Enterprise_ and crew, exposed Marcus' plan, defeated Starfleet's terrorist, and earned his captaincy. He had even cheated death. He was, once again, the Federation's newest hero.

Kirk turned to look at him somewhat expectantly.

"You are distressed about receiving the Medal of Honor," Spock said.

"You've been working on your bedside manner," Kirk said lightly.

"It is Starfleet's highest honor. Very few are awarded it."

"I don't want it," Kirk said quietly.

"You are within your rights to refuse."

Kirk looked at him. "Admiral Komack wouldn't like that very much."

"Then accept it for what it is, a symbol of valor and personal sacrifice in going beyond the call of duty for the good of others."

"It's not that either," Kirk said, turning away.

"I would not believe that about a man who offered his life for that of his crew – twice."

"I was desperate," Kirk said quietly. "I finally understood what Pike had been trying to teach me, and I thought it was too late."

Silence.

"Do you know why I went into the warp core, Spock? It was the only way to make everything right. It never occurred to me that I was going to die. It didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was saving the ship."

"Those are the qualities of a Starfleet captain, to put the needs of the ship and crew before those of himself."

Kirk looked to the foot of the bed. "I remember everything you told me. I do listen to you, you know."

"I had wondered."

Kirk smiled and chuckled softly. He stared at the plain white walls and seemed to drift in thought, his smile slowly fading. "This didn't turn out the way I thought it would, Spock. Nothing turned out the way I thought."

"That may be the greatest lesson."

Kirk slowly turned to him with a thoughtful expression. "That's something Pike would have asked me: What is there to learn from this?"

"It is a question we must all ask ourselves, Jim."

Kirk nodded, still thoughtful.

"This is not something you need to think about now," Spock said. "For now it is enough to know that the _Enterprise_ and the Federation are safe."

Still watching Spock, Kirk's mind shifted gears in an instant. "I want a shower."

* * *

McCoy watched Kirk from his spot along the wall in the physical therapy room. Now that Kirk was strong enough, he was doing more intensive physical therapy, requiring more specialized equipment. Tir, the physical therapist, was a well-built man in his mid-thirties with ten years' experience in the field. He was no-nonsense, quick-witted and never held back his punches.

McCoy liked him.

Kirk on the other hand….

"Are you pushing?" Tir asked. He was positioned over Kirk with Kirk's legs pressed up against his chest.

"Yes, I'm pushing!"

They held the position for a moment longer. McCoy could see the perspiration roll off Kirk as he rapidly breathed through his exertion. Kirk's hands were gripping the thick pad beneath him and McCoy could see they were trembling. Tir must have seen it as well, because he finally let up, coming off Kirk to a stand, but keeping his hands on the now useless legs.

"You push like a girl, Kirk," Tir said politely and dropped to his knees to massage the aching legs.

Kirk's response was to lash out with his right leg. His foot caught Tir in the shoulder.

McCoy couldn't help but smile.

Tir rubbed his shoulder with an amused expression. "Okay, I hear you."

McCoy pushed off the wall and walked forward to stand next to the pad, looking down at an exhausted Kirk.

Tir glanced up at McCoy and gave him an expression that seemed to make a request. Tir knew he had overstayed his welcome with Kirk. He also knew that he needed to keep the relationship stable if Kirk was to get better, and that meant letting Kirk keep his sense of autonomy, and maybe his dignity, as well.

"I'll take over, Tir," McCoy said.

Tir nodded and, without a word, relinquished his patient to McCoy.

Kirk's eyes were closed. His breathing had steadied somewhat and he remained still as McCoy skillfully massaged his legs.

By the time McCoy finished with the left leg and moved on to the right, Kirk had opened his eyes. McCoy occasionally watched Kirk's expression for signs of pain, but remained mostly focused on loosening the cramped muscles. As he finished, he studied Kirk, noting the tight mouth and tiny lines at the edge of his eyes.

"How's your back?" McCoy asked.

"Talking to me loud and clear."

McCoy nodded. "I'll order a sonic treatment when you get back to your room. That should calm the nerves a bit. You're doing well."

Kirk's eyes sharpened. "Does that mean I've earned my freedom?"

"We'll see how the end of the week goes. Your recovery—"

"—is going to take time."

McCoy scowled. "You know it's rude to finish people's sentences."

Kirk stared at him with a soft expression and the faintest smile. "Thanks, Bones."

McCoy met his friend's gaze and saw in Kirk's face something of the young man who sat confidently in the captain's chair, who had decisively ordered the _Enterprise _out of the bottom of an ocean to save his First Officer, and who had defied the head of Starfleet to do what was right. But there was something else there, too – a maturity that comes with understanding, and the steadiness of accepting it.

"You're welcome, Jim."

* * *

**A/N – this is where our story ends…for now. I want to thank all of you for allowing me to share my story and for your reviews – I read every one of them.**

**I never intended this story to go so long, but the characters had other ideas. I have planned a few more chapters that take Kirk to his apartment. I am attempting to bridge the gap between the hospital scene in the movie and the re-christening of Enterprise where we see a more mature Kirk, who seems to have learned some important lessons in STID.**

**Until that time, read, love and enjoy.**


	11. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Jim sat straight-backed on the bio-bed in his private room. He was dressed in a Starfleet standard issue long-sleeved black undershirt and gray uniform pants. He was alone in the silence. For the first time since he had awakened, the air was not filled with the low hum of the monitors that announced every heartbeat and breath he took. The medical equipment that had accompanied his arrival was gone. The room felt empty and unwelcoming.

He was leaving.

The door hissed open and McCoy walked in wearing the soft blue colors of the Science Division. He studied Kirk with an expression that was part pleasure, part concern.

"Ready to leave?" McCoy asked.

"I've been ready for a week." He eyed McCoy and frowned. "Why are you wearing blues?" He had become accustomed to seeing McCoy in the Medical Center's preferred white uniform. The familiar starship blues made him nostalgic.

"Command has ordered physicals on every crewmember of the _Enterprise_. I'm going to be busy this week." McCoy paused a moment, his eyes sharp and focused. "Do I need to go over the restrictions with you again?"

Kirk let out a frustrated breath. "I'm already on a monitor, Bones. What else do you want?"

"Compliance would be nice." McCoy's voice was stern. "Jim, you should be going into a step-down unit for another week. You still need to be monitored."

"That's what this is for," he said, holding up his left arm to reveal the medical monitoring band McCoy had secured to him early this morning. The band was thin and unobtrusive, but he hated it anyway. It had been a condition of his release, one about which McCoy had been completely unyielding.

"_Jim, you're not strong enough to be on your own and you know it," McCoy said. He stood at the foot of Kirk's bed with his arms crossed over his chest._

"_Bones, I—"_

"_You're still on medications that need to be monitored, and we don't know what effects this transfusion is going to have long-term."_

"_That's—"_

"_Not to mention that Medical still wants blood draws every week __**and **__updates and you've got several weeks of PT in front of you. Christ, Jim, walking down the hall without falling over doesn't mean you can be by yourself! If you pass out or have a reaction there's no one around to help you."_

"_I don't need help!" He fixed McCoy with an angry stare. "I'm not an invalid and I'm doing fine in PT."_

"_Oh, are you?"_

_He looked away from McCoy, his jaws clenched. He felt the heat of embarrassment color his cheeks. "One bad session doesn't mean I'm done. I need to get out of here, Bones."_

_McCoy drew a deep breath. "I'm not saying you can't leave. I'm saying that I need to monitor you and you need to follow some restrictions."_

"_You've been monitoring me for a month."_

"_And I'm going to keep on monitoring you until I release you for duty – which I haven't yet."_

_Jim felt his heart pounding rapidly in his chest. He needed to get out of this white, sterile room and out from under the constant scrutiny of doctors and nurses, just for a few moments of privacy and peace where every pulse throb and breath was not recorded and responded to, where he could feel bad or exhausted and not worry about someone checking on him and asking if he's all right … for one moment to be alone and simply feel. And now Bones wanted to tether him with another goddamned monitor. "I don't like being monitored."_

"_Then you're not leaving this hospital."_

McCoy pointed to the medical band. "That doesn't tell me everything I need to know. I'll be making an in-person visit every other day for an assessment and _compliance_ on the restrictions. I don't need you stomping around space dock and getting involved in the ship's repairs. You're not cleared for duty."

"You said that already."

"Well, obviously it warrants repeating," he said shortly. "You're going to tire a lot faster than you think, Jim, and your weight is well below normal. I know you-you don't set any limits on yourself. That's why all this is necessary now."

And there it was, the bone of contention between them: Jim's excursion into the warp core. They had spoken little of it, though he knew that Bones understood why he had risked his life. The responsibility of the ship aside, they would all be dead had he not acted. It wasn't really about rushing into a radiation filled warp core. It was about how Bones saw him: reckless and impetuous.

"Fine, I'll be compliant. Happy?"

"That remains to be seen."

The door slid open and Lieutenant Purcell entered. A tall brunette wearing dress grays and looking decidedly feminine and disciplined at the same time, she was Starfleet's public affairs officer. She had been by earlier to brief Kirk on what to expect on making his exit from the hospital.

"You've drawn quite a crowd, Captain," she said. "There are over a hundred reporters outside."

"Terrific." For all his complaints about lack of privacy in the hospital, he had been nicely protected from the outside world. Even Command had more or less left him alone to recover. He hadn't quite fully understood the impact his actions had on the rest of the Federation until Purcell had briefed him. Somehow he had become a hero.

"They have your credentials and Starfleet's release, so they'll more than likely be asking questions off the sheet." She frowned and studied him. "Are you going to be okay to do this?"

_Now's a great time to ask._

"Make a speech?" He couldn't keep the condescending tone out of his voice. "Yeah, I think I can handle that, Lieutenant."

"This is of significant importance, Captain. The entire Federation is listening to what you say. You may not fully realize, but you've caused quite a stir out there."

He did realize, at least some of it.

She continued. "My job is to enhance the public image of Starfleet and, no offense, but having you 'wing it' as you say, makes me very nervous. One poorly chosen word and I'm doing crisis management for the next two weeks. I want good sound bytes out of this – we need them."

He didn't get the public's interest in what he had done, but he wasn't an idiot. He knew Starfleet was using him to divert attention away from Marcus's crimes. Give the public a hero to cheer and forget about the other hundred dead. It was classic politics. He hated it.

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," he said. His back was beginning to ache from sitting up so long and the pain was making him irritable.

"Do you need a cue sheet?" she asked.

"You briefed me four hours ago, Lieutenant. I'm good." He knew his duty and what was expected of him.

She straightened herself slightly, ruffled by his dismissal. "It's important—"

"You can wait outside, Lieutenant," he said shortly and stood, feeling his back protest with a sharp stab.

She nodded coolly. "Yes, Captain."

Once the door slid shut, he swore softly under his breath. "This is going to be fun."

"Not too late to slip out the back door," McCoy said sympathetically.

"Don't tempt me." There was really no way out for him and they both knew it. Jim was a Starfleet Captain and he had been ordered to be available to the media. He looked at McCoy. "Are we good?"

McCoy had been studying him since walking into the room. Kirk didn't like the clinical expression on his friend's face – the mixture of concern and compassion. He knew he must look pale and unstable. The tremors still plagued him and he had difficulty with balance and coordination when he was tired. But he was still Jim Kirk.

McCoy nodded. "We're good."

Jim pulled the sleeve of his shirt down to cover the bio monitor. He took a breath and looked at McCoy. "Wish me luck."

McCoy's expression softened and a small smile played on the corners of his mouth. "Good luck."

Jim walked out of the room. Purcell stood just outside the door, nervous and rigid.

She gave him a final inspection and nodded. "Ready?"

"Let's do it," he said. He wasn't looking forward to this, and the sooner he did it the sooner it would be over. His back was already hurting.

He could see the media gathered as they approached the front of the Medical Center doors. The crowd was too big to have a press conference in the facility and too disruptive to a working hospital, so Starfleet had set up a podium just outside the doors with the Starfleet emblem emblazoned on the glass. It made a good backdrop for the press release.

And that's all it was, Jim reminded himself, just a press release. They didn't know him, or know anything that had happened. They didn't know Marcus and what had driven a career admiral to the brink of what could only be interpreted as insanity; Marcus who had a drawer full of medals and who had been considered a hero in his own right, now denounced and defamed. What did they know of the laws and rules that governed outer space, where a man had to make the best decision he could with the wits he had and hope it was good enough?

"Captain?" Purcell said with uncertainty.

He looked at her and realized he had stopped a few feet from the doors. He took a deep breath, focused on the doors, and with renewed determination, walked outside. He strode to the podium without delay, not looking at the reporters or cameras, trying to keep his breathing normal. He was a Starship captain and he'd be damned if he was going to apologize for what he'd done.

People were already calling his name, trying to get his attention. He stood tall behind the podium and looked up. The flash of lights blinded him….

…_The force of it threw him across the warp core. His back smashed into something hard, sending shards of pain into him…_

He blinked and took an involuntary step back from the podium, focusing on the Starfleet emblem engraved on the platform. Sweat rolled down his temple and he could feel his heart racing, the pain shooting up his spine….

_Shit. _

He looked up again, making an effort to appear as if everything were normal, wondering if they had seen the fear and pain on his face. He glanced at Purcell who appeared to be holding her breath. She took a step toward him.

He clenched his jaws and straightened his spine, ignoring the sharp pinch. He pushed down the fear and the memory and returned to his position, resting his hands on the podium. Looking up at the reporters, he let his expression soften, his shoulders relax and gave them a charming smile, letting them know he was ready. He nodded to the first reporter who had her hand raised.

"How does it feel to be finally released, Captain Kirk?"

"I think I can speak for both Starfleet Medical and myself when I say that it's a relief I'm leaving."

They laughed.

He nodded to another reporter.

"They say you went above and beyond the call of duty and risked your life to save the lives of your crew. Do you consider yourself a hero?"

He realized he was gripping the edge of the podium and forced himself to relax, meeting the eyes of the reporter who had asked the one question to which he had no answer. "My duty as a Starfleet Captain is first to the safety of the Federation and then to my crew. There are no degrees to that duty. It is absolute and inarguable. Every crewmember on board the _Enterprise _acted heroically in the face of insurmountable odds. And they did so at the risk of their own lives for no other reason than it was the oath they took when they joined Starfleet."

He quickly went on to another question.

"This is the second time Earth's been attacked in two years. Do you think Earth is vulnerable to hostile penetration?"

"That is a question best directed to Starfleet Command." He smiled easily. "I'm only a Starship Captain."

He continued to answer their questions. By the end of the fifteen minute press conference, Jim Kirk had every reporter eating out of his hand. It was Purcell who smoothly inserted herself, ending the conference with an apology that Kirk was still recuperating and needed rest. With his back throbbing painfully, Kirk skillfully retreated as Purcell continued to field questions.

Jim moved away from the media gathering – tired and empty. He walked toward the street and saw Spock standing next to a hover car. The Vulcan was in uniform, straight-backed and relaxed as only he could be while patiently waiting. He tilted his head just slightly as Jim approached.

"Chauffeuring, Spock?"

"I thought perhaps that you would appreciate a speedy exit."

He smiled wearily. "I would. Thank you."

Spock opened the door on the passenger side and he slid into the waiting car, leaving the media frenzy and the hospital behind.

McCoy watched Jim get into the car and breathed a strained sigh of relief. He stood hidden among other medical personnel who had gathered to watch the young captain exit the hospital. In the month Jim had been at the Medical Center, he had caused quite a stir among the staff and they were happy to see him leave under his own power – healed and healthy.

Well, almost healed…not quite healthy.

McCoy had watched the press conference with concern. Jim's bio monitor was fed into his PADD and he had established alerts to certain vital parameters. An alert had already sounded before Jim had even begun speaking. But McCoy didn't need the alert to know that Jim had experienced a flashback due to something in the crowd.

He had cursed when he had seen the pain and confusion flash across Jim's pale face. He'd held his breath with everyone else as Jim faltered slightly. He'd even taken a step out of the crowd, intent on calling a halt to the press conference that resembled nothing more than a circus. He hated the proceedings, hated what they were doing to Jim. Couldn't they just let the man be? Wasn't saving his ship and crew enough? Anger rose within him as he focused on Jim – pale and unstable. Then, as quickly as Jim had lapsed, he'd recovered. True to form, he had won the crowd as only he could.

The flashback worried McCoy, but did not surprise him. Jim was by no means recovered, but the Medical Center had only focused on his physical recovery. McCoy knew that Jim had not even begun to recover emotionally.

The crowd had begun to disperse, murmuring among themselves and drifting back to their duties. The medical personnel had other patients to attend. Something else would capture their attention or they'd fill their day with the routines and tasks of patient care. Slowly, the press conference disbanded and the grounds emptied. It would be in the news tonight on all the broadcasts, the sound bytes Purcell was so hoping for: Youngest Starship Captain leaves hospital a hero. Tomorrow there would be other news and different distractions.

For today it was over.

McCoy waited alone with the sun warming his skin and felt a sorrow deep within.

It was just beginning for Jim.


	12. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

Jim's back throbbed painfully as he entered his apartment. It suddenly occurred to him that it was the first time he'd been here since Pike's death.

Had it been a month already?

It smelled different.

It was a simple studio apartment, housed in the officer's section of Starfleet's base, which meant he had a housekeeping service and a great view of the skyline. At least, it _had _been a great view, until Khan attacked the Daystrom conference room in the main building, marring the skyline. He walked to the window now and let Spock follow behind and find his own place within the apartment.

He expected to see the burnt out remains of the conference room, but Starfleet had already repaired the damage. The building looked new. It was everything else around it that had crumbled with the wild crash of the _Vengeance_. Strange that the main building remained intact, a building where decisions of war and peace were made. Khan would have hated to see he'd missed his mark.

"They repaired it," he said.

"Yes," Spock said. "Several weeks ago."

It had survived the second attack, standing tall and unscathed in the surrounding destruction. He felt oddly empty inside, staring at the building. The last time he had stood at this window he had been raw with grief, seeing the broken glass and charred metal and feeling as if the world had dropped out from under him. He had never felt so lost. He had not been able to save the man who had saved him. In his grief, he'd had to work to find anger at the injustice. That had come later, quickly and easily, and had all but consumed him.

Everything had happened so fast after Pike's death – the rush to find Khan, Marcus' betrayal, the fight to save his crew…and then he had experienced his own death and….

He closed his eyes. Where was that anger now?

A strong hand gripped his bicep. He realized that he was swaying.

"Jim?"

He opened his eyes and looked at Spock. "I'm tired, Spock."

Spock looked concerned. "You must rest. You have not fully regained your strength. You are still recuperating."

He nodded numbly. Exhaustion suddenly weighed him down like melted lead infused into his bones. He stood anchored in place. With great effort, he moved his legs, shuffling toward the bed-the bed he had shared with the beautiful Caitian twins with the music blaring and the entire galaxy laid before him like a kingdom before a favorite prince. Now it was empty and uninviting.

His back throbbed and each step ignited the nerves along his spine, shooting ribbons of pain into his belly and hip. He sat on the bed, numb and exhausted. He was aware of Spock standing next to him, watching with discomfort and concern.

Can a Vulcan feel uncomfortable?

His head hurt. He sank onto the bed, his head resting on the pillow as he closed his eyes. The linens had been cleaned and pressed and they smelled fresh. He wanted them to smell like the Caitian twins. He wanted one thing to be the way it had been before Khan had entered their lives. But everything had been scrubbed clean, including himself.

Darkness crowded the edges of his consciousness. He welcomed it. He felt Spock take off his boots and lift his legs onto the bed. Curled on his right side, his left arm trembled. He didn't try to hide it. He let the darkness take him.

* * *

When he woke it was early evening and the sun was setting, casting long shadows into his apartment. A blanket covered him. He lay still with his eyes open, taking in the sounds and smells of his apartment. He didn't remember it feeling so vacant. Then again, he hadn't spent much time in the place. Starfleet had assigned him the quarters when he'd been promoted to rank of captain and he was grateful for being out of the dorm, but the place didn't feel like home. It was just a place to be between assignments when the _Enterprise_ was safely anchored in dock.

He had never felt at home on Earth.

Slowly he sat up, letting the blanket fall as his legs swung over the edge of the bed. The room spun as a wave of dizziness overtook him. Despite having just awakened, he still felt exhausted and he hated it. Pressing a hand to the back of his neck, he rotated his head, trying to ease the ache that had settled just at the base of his skull.

It was then that he saw Spock standing in the center of the living area, watching him. He frowned, confused, and blinked a few times as if to clear his vision. He scanned the apartment. Yes, it was evening and they were still alone.

What the hell?

"Spock…have you been here all the time?"

"Yes."

Had he forgotten something, Jim wondered? Was there something he was supposed to do? He'd given his press conference. Hadn't he? Yes, he remembered. The lights had bothered him.

"Did I miss something, Spock?" he asked carefully standing, testing the strength of his legs. He felt a little shaky and his heart began to pound rapidly.

"Miss something, Jim?"

"Why are you still here?"

Spock remained standing in place, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders straight. His expression, though, was relaxed. "It would have been rude to have simply left without a proper farewell. I was merely observing human customs."

"Bullshit." He walked on unsteady legs into the living area. "But thank you."

Spock inclined his head. Only Spock could make that move look graceful and regal.

"What's this?" Jim asked, seeing two medication bottles on the coffee table. A wave of heat came over him and he began to sweat.

"Doctor McCoy left these for you with instructions that you are to take them upon waking, and with food."

Jim frowned. "Bones was here?"

How long had he slept?

Spock nodded.

Which meant that he'd been scanned. Had his bio monitor gone off already? Shit, if he couldn't make it twelve hours after being released from the hospital without his damn monitor going off, Bones was going to be stuck to him like glue. It was probably going off now with this heart pounding.

He sat down heavily on the sofa and swiped at his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. Why was he so unstable?

"I believe you will feel stronger once you have eaten," Spock said.

He glanced up at Spock. "Playing doctor, Spock?"

"Making an observation, Jim." Spock gave him one of those amused, tolerant looks he saved only for Jim. "I took the liberty of ordering dinner."

"This should be good," Jim said easily. He was acutely aware of his thundering heartbeat. "I will be very interested in what a Vulcan orders for dinner."

"Tofu soup and steamed brown rice."

"Sounds stimulating." But his stomach couldn't handle anything other than that right now and he knew it. As it was, he still threw up half his meals.

"I can order something else if you like," Spock said with concern. "Dr. McCoy instructed mild foods on your diet. I thought…."

"It's fine, Spock, really," he said with a forced smile.

As Spock moved into the kitchen area, Jim reached for the small bottles of medications and noticed that his hands were still trembling slightly. Maybe eating wasn't such a bad idea. He examined the bottles. He didn't remember Bones telling him anything about medications. He read the instructions on the bottle: **Take one capsule with food every 12 hours**. Wonderful, that told him nothing about why he was taking it. He put the pills down and rubbed his eyes.

When the table was set, he joined Spock. His heart had finally calmed down, but he still felt unsteady.

"How are the repairs coming?" He distrusted the look of his brown rice. He had a sudden flash of a prison chow line.

"The refitting is on schedule. Although there are several changes Mr. Scott wants to make to Engineering."

"I bet that's setting the Chief of Starfleet Operations' teeth on edge." The rice tasted bland. He took no pleasure in chewing it. "Tell Scotty to play nice."

"I will relay your message." Spock studied him for a moment then rose and walked into the living area. He returned with the two bottles of medications and set them down on the table.

He glanced briefly at Spock, trying not to let his irritation show. He had forgotten how determined the Vulcan could be. Nothing escaped the keen eyes and sharp mind. Still, he sensed McCoy had a hand in this. He could practically hear Bones - 'Make sure he eats and takes his medications. Don't let him talk his way out of it.' With a sigh, he grabbed the bottles and pressed the release for the appropriate dosage. He downed the capsules quickly with water.

"It must be a relief for you to be out of the hospital," Spock said. "It is good to see you…as humans would say…up and about."

He looked at Spock and smiled. Vulcans really were terrible at small talk. "It's good to be up and about." Even though his apartment felt alien to him – too quiet and empty. He didn't relish the thought of spending a few weeks confined to the small room while the rest of the world went on about their business. It seemed that everybody had something to do but him. Bones was busy giving the crew mandatory physicals. Spock was overseeing _Enterprise's _entirerefit. Scotty was busy with the ship….

_A flash of light sent him flying. He could feel his vertebrae crack on impact, but that pain was lost to the myriad of other pains that had consumed him. As he fell, one thought reverberated through his mind: He had won…and he was dying…._

"Jim?"

He looked up to see the concerned face of his friend.

"Are you experiencing discomfort?"

"What?" He made an effort to control his expression, wondering what the Vulcan had seen. "No, I was…thinking." He motioned to the bowl in front of Spock. "Eat."

He concentrated on his own soup, but when the silence became too oppressive and his thoughts turned to images of the warp core, he filled the conversation with benign talk of Starfleet and _Enterprise_ and what the crew was doing. They lingered over their meal like two old friends reminiscing after a long separation. At that table they were not captain and first officer. They were not human and Vulcan. There was no Khan and loss of life and betrayal and revenge. There were only two men and a world that could wait.

* * *

Jim shot up in bed, the echo of his cry fading in the darkness. A shooting pain ran through his spine, digging in deep. His sheets were damp with sweat and twisted around his naked body. He ran a trembling hand through his sweat-soaked hair and swore. He had hoped the nightmares would end with his hospital discharge, that the comforting and familiar setting of his apartment would ease his unrest. The sounds and smells of his private hospital room were a stark reminder of his ordeal; he had thought that perhaps it was contributing to his unease. Now he realized that it had little to do with it.

The pain in his back drew his attention. Carefully curving his spine, he fell back down onto the mattress, waiting for the throbbing to diminish.

He couldn't remember the nightmare and that nagged at him. If he could wrap his mind around the images, he could console himself, tell himself it wasn't real, that it was an old memory. But the truth was he didn't know if it was real or not. He couldn't remember enough of what had happened in the warp core to disprove anything. All he remembered was the pain and the overwhelming need to succeed. Nothing had mattered but saving his crew.

He stared up at the ceiling, trying to recall an image from his dream, but his mind remained blank. Still, the feeling of fear and revulsion overwhelmed him. He closed his eyes and willed the fear away, refusing to give in to it. Slowly his heart rate decreased and the pain in his back ebbed. He listened to the silence. He didn't know why he was haunted, what memory refused to settle into the quiet corners of his mind. He'd always been able to forget before, to tuck away the fear and pain and go on. Why was this so different?

There was an ache behind his eyes. He wouldn't close his eyes. He wouldn't go back to sleep.

Gradually the room lightened as the sun rose. His body had become pleasantly numb and so had his mind. With reluctance, he rolled out of bed and went to take a shower. That was the difference between life on _Enterprise _and life on Earth: Real water in the shower. At the hospital, the water had been regulated and his time in the shower monitored. Always there was a nurse or Bones nearby, waiting…expecting him to fall.

He stepped into the stall and let the door seal shut behind him and programmed the shower. The stall was small and lined with flat stone blocks. It was designed for efficiency, as was most everything in the apartment. In the past he had found the space irritating, confining, but now he found the closeness comforting, as if the walls had come in to embrace him in solitude.

The water rained down and he ducked his head under the downpour. For a long time he simply let the water pour over him, washing away the last vestiges of nightmare, the odors of the hospital, the sweat, his sadness. He was a chalk drawing in the rain, wanting to be expunged.

He wanted everything to be new and he wanted everything to remain the way it had been before Khan had come into his life. But it was never going to be the same. Everything had changed.

Drawing a shuddering breath, he reached for the pre-soaped cloth and began washing. His movements were slow and without thought. He liked the feel of the water beating down on him, the way the room smelled pure and clean. The steam rose and he seemed to disappear in the white mist.

As he scrubbed, his movements suddenly became more aggressive and frantic. He was home now, he reminded himself. He was free. But he washed his body like a man trying to erase graffiti from a wall. He tried to slow his movements, to slow the rush of emotions that surfaced, but he kept scrubbing. His heart pounded and his muscles ached until the cloth slipped from his hand and he stilled.

His skin tingled and the water fell, the tiny drops like pins on his flesh. He bent his head and rested his hands on the smooth surface of the wall.

_Stop, just stop!_

He squeezed his eyes shut and slammed his hand against the wall. _Stop!_

But it wouldn't stop. It rose from deep within, a gnawing, aching thing that demanded release. It was cold and hot at the same time and it clawed its way up from his belly, tightening his throat as he held it at bay, until suddenly it escaped past his lips. The soft cry sounded alien and so familiar. He drew a staggered breath to shut it back inside, but it was too late. Like a fountain it bubbled up. His body shook as the sobs wracked him, one after another…without mercy.

He hit the wall again with the flat of his hand.

_Goddamnit! Stop!_

The water was pounding onto his back, running through his hair, washing away the tears that seemed not to end.


	13. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

McCoy pressed the buzzer to Kirk's apartment for a second time and checked his chronometer, forcing himself to take a deep breath. _He could be sleeping. Give him time._

It had been two days since he'd released Jim. He hadn't planned on visiting until late this afternoon, but Jim hadn't answered his video comm last night or this morning, and the bio monitor was showing some worrisome data.

He shifted his weight, feeling the familiar restlessness surge through him. He knew that Jim had finished with Tir early this morning, and that the sessions always took a lot out of Jim. He knew Jim hadn't been sleeping well either, so it was plausible that the man was dead to the world. Except that wasn't what his vitals were showing.

_Come on, Jim. Answer the damn door._

He didn't want to use his medical override. Things were tenuous between the two. He felt the tension and Jim's resistance at being what he perceived as controlled. Despite their friendship, he was Jim's doctor and it was his responsibility to get Jim ready to return to duty. Something Starfleet Medical had reminded him of just yesterday.

"_Don't push him too much," the head of Medical had said. "Let him come back on his own time."_

As if McCoy were rushing him. What did these bureaucrats know of Jim Kirk? He was a name and a series of medical statistics in a file, and although they had been following his progress, they clearly knew nothing of his behavior. Kirk didn't understand limitations and he certainly didn't understand quit.

He gripped his medical case and mentally went over the data he had studied this morning. Jim's electrolytes were off which meant he hadn't been eating well. That was concerning enough, although not a surprise, but added to that his blood pressure was decreased and there were indications of kidney and heart stress.

He was about to override the entrance lock when the door opened. It took all of his professionalism not to curse aloud.

"Miss me already, Bones?" Kirk stood with his head slightly inclined, dripping wet with a towel wrapped haphazardly around his narrow waist. Pale and shivering, he turned and walked back into his apartment.

"Took your time," McCoy said tersely. He entered slowly, studying Kirk's every move: the cautious movements, the unsteady pace, the careful way he held himself, the uneven respirations. He was in pain.

Why hadn't that shown on the monitor results? He made a mental note to adjust the settings. He set his case on the coffee table as Jim walked into the bathroom without a word. He looked around the apartment. He was familiar with Jim's residence, having spent more than a few nights killing beers on the sofa and trying to forget all the things they didn't want to remember. Jim wasn't the neatest man. There were always dishes or empty bottles strewn about, along with unfolded clothes and the occasional jacket thrown across the back of a chair.

McCoy frowned. What the hell had Jim been doing in the apartment for two days? The place showed little sign of being lived in. Spock had said they had eaten, but he didn't see any dirty dishes or empty glasses. He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. As he'd feared, it was barren of food. Not even takeout containers.

Jim wasn't eating. Lack of food explained something of the data he'd been receiving, but he had hoped he was wrong. Jim knew how important it was to keep eating and he'd been doing well in the hospital, even gaining weight. He shut the refrigerator door. This was one battle he didn't need. He had hoped that Jim would comply a little with his medical instructions. Now, barely three days out and it was clear that he was going to have to make some changes.

With a sigh, he walked back into the living area and passed the small desk in the corner. These were Officer's Quarters, and Starfleet was, if anything, efficient. Each apartment was equipped with a small desk and a terminal that had access to ship's logs and mandates and just about anything else a Starfleet officer might need. The desk, he noticed, was the only area that looked like it had been occupied. Curious, he moved around to the back to see the terminal.

_Damn it!_

On the small screen was a list of names he immediately recognized: He had signed all their death certificates. He hadn't allowed Jim access to Starfleet reports while in the hospital. He had forgotten that these would be awaiting Jim on his return. Every commanding officer received a copy of the death certificates. They required his verification and approval before sending on to Command. Spock, as second in command, had actually signed the reports while Jim lay in a coma. But the commanding officer would still get a copy.

_I should have warned him about this._ He glanced at the pending files. Jim had been composing letters to the families. Of course, the time-honored duty that had withstood centuries of war and loss now landed, for the first time, on Jim. No wonder he wasn't sleeping.

Jim exited the bathroom wearing only a pair of loose-fitting pants. "I thought you weren't coming until this afternoon."

"And I thought we agreed on compliance."

Jim glared at him as walked over to the dresser and opened a drawer, plucking out a dark undershirt. "You and I have different ideas of compliance, Bones."

"Clearly," he said shortly, watching as Jim struggled into the shirt, his movements awkward and impeded by obvious discomfort.

Why the hell did he have to start writing those letters now, when he wasn't even recovered? Did he think so little of his own life that he was willing to compromise what little progress he had made?

"What?" Jim asked as he made his way into the living area. "You've got that look. Crew failing their physicals? Starfleet change the requirements? Tribble die?"

McCoy didn't take the bait. He moved from the desk into the living area, fixing Jim with an unremitting stare. As Jim joined him in the living area, he opened the medical case and retrieved a scanner. He knew what the scanner was going to show; he had already made his diagnosis, and he was furious.

"Sit," he ordered.

As Jim took a seat on the couch, he noticed the younger man was still shivering. He placed the small scanner on Jim's chest and reviewed the data that poured into his PADD.

"Take a deep breath," he said. "Another."

He frowned at the data and felt his temper rise. Setting the scanner aside, he quickly punched in an order to Medical to have an IV and solutions delivered immediately to the address. He turned his attention back to his patient. "You haven't been taking your medications."

"I'm taking them," Jim said. "They don't always stay down."

"And you haven't been eating."

"I'm eating. I just told you."

He drew a short breath. "You've gotta eat, Jim. I told you before that you can't go this long without eating. You've got to eat every day, several times a day."

"I **ate**, Bones." Jim's mouth drew into a tight line. His lips paled.

"Don't lie to me," he said curtly. "You're dehydrated and hypoglycemic. Any first year med student could see that."

The door chime sounded. Jim made a motion to stand, but he put a firm hand Jim's shoulder. "Stay put."

The nurse at the door wordlessly handed over the IV setup and solutions he had ordered. He confirmed the order and signed the release, dismissing the nurse, and then returned to Jim.

"What's that?" Jim asked with a frown.

He began to set up the IV. "Parenteral nutrition and isotonic crystalloids. You're blood-pressure is low and your kidneys are sluggish. This is the quickest way to get your blood volume up and balance your electrolytes."

Jim was already leaning away. "I don't need that."

He stopped his preparations and stared hard at Jim. "Did I give you an option? You've been out of the hospital for less than three days and I find you moderately dehydrated. Do you know how serious that is in your condition?"

"I don't have a condition!" Jim was on his feet now and swaying unsteadily.

"Yes, you do!" He didn't flinch. "I'm not having this conversation with you, Jim. Now, I can stand here and wait for you to fall down and then administer the IV, or you can sit down and let me help you."

For a long minute, Jim didn't move. He stood pale and shaking on unsteady legs and McCoy was concerned that Jim was going to take him up on his threat and wait and pass out. It wouldn't be the first time Jim's stubbornness outlasted his common sense. He certainly couldn't last much longer without lying down. He was already swaying. Then, suddenly, Jim sat, his legs collapsing to land him abruptly on the sofa with a soft grunt.

"You don't make anything easy, you know that?" McCoy said, hanging the IV solution to the portable pole next to the sofa. He gently grasped Jim's right arm and pushed up the sleeve of his undershirt, all the while keeping an eye on him. "Don't suppose you'd like to tell me why you aren't eating? Are you still vomiting?"

He broke the sterile field on the catheter and inserted the cannula into the cephalic vein. Jim had been on IV therapy for so long, he wanted to choose a fresh vein to avoid any complications of collapsed veins.

"Jim?" he prompted, taping the line securely to Jim's arm.

"I guess I forgot."

That was as close to a confession as he was going to get. He studied his friend for a moment and then adjusted the drip flow on the solution. It was plausible that Jim had forgotten to eat, especially since food was not a priority to him. Still….

"What about drinking? Did you forget to do that, too?" he asked calmly.

"I've been drinking."

He scowled. Either Jim was lying, or he really didn't remember, which was even more worrisome.

Jim shivered, his brows drawing together. He put a hand to his forehead. "How long is this going to take?"

"You have some place you need to be? Lie down and let the solution take effect," he said, placing a hand on Jim's shoulder and gently but firmly pressing him down to lie flat.

"There'd better not be a sedative in this," Jim complained as he eased back onto the soft cushions, wincing as his back settled into a new position.

"A sedative is the last thing you need," he said. "I need to get you rehydrated, then we're going to talk."

"Terrific."

He walked to the bed and retrieved a throw blanket. Covering Jim, he took a seat in the chair next to the sofa and snatched up his PADD. He reviewed Tir's notes on the PT session, wondering if the therapist had noticed Jim's dehydration and pain. Tir's notes were clear and detailed: **Pt completed program with minimal interruption. Considerable pain in lower back during routine 4. Unable to complete routine 6 due to lack of arm strength. Left arm shows rapid fatigue and loss of coordination. Hydrated Pt upon completion.**

If Tir had given Jim fluids, why was he now so dehydrated? Unless he had been dehydrated going into the session. McCoy scribbled orders to Tir for his next session and closed the file. He glanced at Jim, who had begun to fall asleep. His impromptu visit was going to take longer than he had anticipated. With a sigh, he sent a request to have Dr. L'Armia conduct the physicals he was scheduled to perform this afternoon.

By the time the IV solution was complete, Jim was sound asleep. McCoy hung the parenteral nutrition. While Jim slept, he ran some additional scans, pleased to see the stats elevating and leveling off. For the rest of the exam he needed his patient awake

* * *

He realized he had fallen asleep only when he awoke. He took a moment to take an abstract inventory. The buzzing in his head that had persisted during McCoy's visit was thankfully absent, as was the nausea and shivering. He lay unmoving beneath the warmth of a blanket, cocooned in softness. Safe. The muted sound of voices disrupted his peace as he realized he was not alone. Mentally frowning, he concentrated on the low, composed voice. Though he could not hear specifics of the conversation, the dialogue had a distinct medical feel to it.

_Bones._

He slowly opened his eyes. He was on the sofa and the afternoon sun lit the windows, brightening the normally somber room. Damn. This wasn't good. He'd slept and Bones was still here, watching him, waiting. At least the IV was gone, although that was of little comfort. Cautiously, he sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the sofa. The room tilted once, then righted.

The low thrum of conversation stopped abruptly. The tone changed and he heard the next words clearly.

"That's all for now. I'll check in later."

That was McCoy's voice coming from behind him. He swiveled his head to see the doctor shut his communicator and rise from the table in the eating area, focused intently on him.

"Glad to see you're awake, Jim."

His tone suggested otherwise. It had a familiar edge to it that told Jim he was still pissed off. "How long have I been asleep?"

"A few hours." McCoy joined him in the living area and took a seat in the chair next to the sofa. He was observing Jim with a clinical eye – sharp and penetrating. His medical case was still on the coffee table, the contents laid about, having been in obvious use. "How do you feel?"

He nodded guardedly. "Good. Must have been tired."

"Dehydration will do that to you."

Here it was. McCoy was not one to let anything go. If he had something to say then he'd say it, even if it took hours. He could begin chastising a patient just before anesthesia took hold and continue his tirade in the recovery room just as the poor guy was waking. Jim had been on the receiving end of McCoy's soliloquies more than once.

He turned to McCoy with a look of resignation. "You're pissed."

"Got that, did you?"

"You being so good at hiding your emotions."

"It's not funny, Jim." McCoy scowled. "If I can't trust you to follow the simplest instructions like **eating**, how am I going to trust you to do the rest?"

He opened his mouth.

"You know, believe it or not," McCoy continued, "I'm trying to help you. I'm trying to get you back on active duty. I'm trying—"

"Bones—"

"—to get you off the radar. It isn't just me. Every treatment or medication I administer is reviewed by Medical and Command. They have access to your file anytime they want. This little stunt doesn't bode well for you getting out from under their scrutiny and back on duty."

Something in McCoy's words fueled his temper. Maybe it was the fact that he didn't seem to own anything of himself any more, that his body and mind refused to cooperate with what he wanted, sabotaging his efforts to shake loose every memory of what had happened. Or maybe it was that he finally understood what it meant to be part of an experiment, owned and restrained. "Then give me a different doctor," he snapped.

McCoy's eyes darkened. "I can't. I'm the one who formulated the serum, remember?"

"I didn't tell you to put the damn blood in me."

"And I didn't tell you to climb in the warp core!"

They stared at one another; their words ringing in the silence of the room, both of them knowing it was too late to cancel them. In the back of Jim's mind, he wondered how long they had wanted to say those things to each other. Then every ounce of resistance went out of him. His shoulders slumped and he looked away for a moment.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I'm grateful for what you did, Bones. It's just…."

"You don't like this."

No, he didn't like being the subject of an experiment. He didn't like being deemed the hero of a disaster. "It wasn't supposed to be this way."

McCoy took a breath and leaned his arms on the tops of his knees. "I know this is difficult for you, Jim. I know you don't like being sick. I don't like having to answer to Command on how I treat you. I don't like a bunch of bureaucrats inspecting your medical records and drawing conclusions about things they know nothing about." He shook his head. "This is how it is right now. We just have to get through this."

He turned to his friend. "I don't know how."

McCoy's eyes softened. "We go one step at a time."

He didn't know how to do that, either. There were a dozen things that demanded his attention, a hundred thoughts that persisted in his head. How was he supposed to sort it all out? He had all but destroyed the _Enterprise,_ lost more crew than he could bear to count, and had probably started a war with the Klingons. How was he supposed to take that one step at a time?

McCoy frowned. "Jim—"

He tore his gaze away. "You're right. It'll be okay." He turned back to this friend and smiled reassuringly. "I make a lousy patient."

"Tell me about it." McCoy didn't return the smile, still serious and thoughtful. "You can't not eat, Jim."

He nodded and rose, feeling the familiar pull in his back. Despite a few lingering aches, McCoy's treatment had definitely made him feel better, less tired. He felt a little chilled, leaving the warm blankets behind. In his line of sight was his desk and the dreaded task that awaited him. Restless, he stepped out of the living area and found himself at the window, staring at an equally dreaded view. He often found himself there during the day, absorbing the scene and letting his thoughts drift. It anchored him to everything that had happened. He would stand by the window and try to find his rage. But it never came.

McCoy appeared at his side. "I have to finish my exam, Jim. And then you're going to eat something."

Jim looked at him and saw the concern in the tired eyes. McCoy, he knew, never had difficulty connecting to his own anger. It always seemed to be there, just beneath the surface, cresting his compassion from time to time. Jim saw it now. He knew that as much as he hated being controlled, his friend hated not being in control. Patients were supposed to listen to their doctors' directives and get better. They weren't supposed to challenge.

When he didn't move, McCoy gently gripped his arm to reinforce his compliance. With a sigh, he surrendered, letting McCoy lead him back to the sofa. "You know, you could have done all of this while I was asleep."

"No, I couldn't. Instruments only tell me so much," McCoy said, seating himself next to Jim on the sofa. "For instance, they don't tell me **why **you aren't eating."

"I told you, I forgot."

"Yeah, you told me." McCoy took out a scanner and pressed it to the left side of his chest, watching the data feed through to his PADD. He moved it several times, intently studying the data.

"So, am I going to live?"

McCoy cast him a dour look. "Turn around. I want to scan your back."

"Well, since you asked so nicely." It was clear McCoy wasn't going to let him lighten the mood, and that the doctor's anger was closer to the surface than he realized. He shifted his position on the sofa and felt the light pressure of the scanner just where his vertebrae had been broken. It didn't hurt, but he pulled away reflexively, protective of the injury.

"Is that hurting you?" McCoy asked, pausing.

He shook his head. When the scanner returned, he held himself in place. McCoy moved the scanner to several different areas and he found himself shifting uncomfortably.

"Hold still another minute." McCoy put the scanner down and replaced it with his probing fingers. "Does that hurt?"

Hell, yes, it hurt! His entire spine galvanized under the probing. "What are you doing, trying to cripple me?"

"Settle down," McCoy said calmly and ceased his examination. "There's some inflammation between the vertebrae." He made a note on the PADD. "I'm going to give you an anti-inflammatory."

He turned in time to see McCoy load a hypo. "Bones—"

Too late, the hypo hit home at the base of his neck. "Damn it! Warn me, will you?"

"I did warn you."

He rubbed his neck, glaring at McCoy. "Are you done?"

"No." He typed on the PADD. "Since you aren't taking your medications, I'm going to have to administer them daily."

"I can take my medications," he said firmly.

"Yes, I presume you can, although I haven't seen any evidence of that."

McCoy's condescending tone infuriated Jim. "I don't need a keeper."

"No, you need a nurse, but I don't trust you with any of them, so you get me."

He watched in seething silence as McCoy retrieved another scanner, this one a general tricorder that fit in the palm of his hand.

Holding it just in front of Jim, he scowled at what he read. "You have a fever."


	14. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

Spock slowed his pace as he approached the apartment door. He recognized his hesitation as discomfort. It was the same sensation he had often experienced his first year at the academy. Though it had not been his first trip to Earth, he had felt more alien in those dorm rooms than he had ever felt on Vulcan. It had nothing to do with the fact that he had been the only Vulcan to join Starfleet. He had also been the only Vulcan to refuse admission into the Vulcan Science Academy. And that was it, he decided, standing in front of the closed door; this was another first.

He pressed the chime.

It wasn't that he was nervous. Vulcans don't get nervous. It was that this was uncharted territory for him, as so many things had been since he'd met James Kirk.

"_The truth is…I'm going to miss you," Kirk said with a mischievous expression._

What was he supposed to say in response? He had never had a friend, and other than his mother, no one had ever professed to miss him.

The door hissed open. McCoy stood in civilian attire, looking anything but relaxed. His hair was mussed as if his fingers had worried it the way humans tended to do when distraught. His eyes narrowed and a deep scowl creased his brow. "What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were with Jim."

Spock raised a single eyebrow at the abrupt greeting. Vulcan, with its violent history and inhospitable geography, was more cordial than most of the human culture. No Vulcan would ever greet another or a guest in such a rude manner. He had always found it interesting that humans thought of Vulcans as cold and unfeeling when their own society demonstrated that exactly.

"We had dinner and he retired early."

McCoy's scowl deepened. It interested Spock the way human eyes changed with their emotions. McCoy's eyes darkened at this moment. He made no move to allow Spock entrance.

"When I left he was sleeping soundly."

"Hmm," McCoy said and stepped aside, casually motioning him to enter. "Did he eat enough?"

"Half of what was portioned." Having not been invited to sit, he stood in the living area where McCoy had led him. "He seemed fatigued."

"He has a low-grade fever," McCoy said and, with a sharp exhale, petulantly dropped into one of the chairs in the living area as if it had offended him in some way.

He had noticed Kirk's fever with concern. The fatigue was understandable, but Kirk's introspective quietness went beyond weariness. The human had barely engaged in conversation with him.

"Are you going to sit or stand there like a damn watchman?" McCoy asked.

Human hospitality. Spock sat without comment. It was then that he noticed with unease that McCoy had been drinking. A bottle of bourbon and a half-empty glass sat on the table before them. "You are drinking."

"I'm drinking," McCoy said and reclaimed his glass without apology.

Also on the table, in clear view, was the PADD that displayed Kirk's vitals.

"Is that wise?" He had never understood the human need to consume alcohol, but he had learned that it often meant emotional distress of some kind.

"Probably not." McCoy took a generous swallow of the bourbon. "What brings you here, Spock? It's late."

"I apologize for interrupting your repose, Doctor, and one of your rare evenings off. I know that you have been over-taxed these past weeks in caring for the Captain, and now have crew physicals to complete."

McCoy fixed him with a questioning stare and turned the glass skillfully between his fingers. The pale light from the ceiling caught the amber liquid, setting it on fire. It was like a living thing in the glass – restless and distracted. Spock had to focus to keep his gaze on the doctor, who waited with barely disguised amusement.

"I am in need of advice," Spock said finally.

McCoy's brows shot up. His eyes lit with amusement. "Maybe I should be offering _you_ a drink."

"I do not follow your logic." He remained unmoving in the chair.

"You want advice from me? On what?"

"Human relationships."

McCoy snorted and downed the last of the bourbon in his glass. "Never mind. I'm the one who needs a drink."

He watched as McCoy poured more bourbon into the glass.

"You're serious," McCoy said, looking up at him.

"Vulcans do not engage in humor, Doctor. I am always serious."

"So I've noticed." McCoy leaned back into the chair. "I might not be the best person to give advice on human relationships, Spock. I couldn't make my own marriage work. If you and Uhura—"

"That is not the relationship to which I am referring."

The PADD on the table beeped.

McCoy focused on the display for a moment. His brows twitched together and an unknown emotion crossed his face. Spock was not skilled interpreting human expressions. He had long discovered that human language was often contrary to its implications, especially with this particular human. The drink in McCoy's hand seemed forgotten as his eyes unfocused.

"There is a concern?" Spock inquired.

McCoy's eyes slowly cleared and he raised the glass to his mouth. "He's having a nightmare."

Not unusual, and the doctor didn't appear to be concerned, merely distracted. He studied McCoy for a moment longer. He identified what he thought was sorrow. But why would McCoy feel sorry? He waited until McCoy finished taking a mouthful of the bourbon before speaking. "Perhaps I should return at a more convenient time."

"Chickening out?"

He stared at the doctor. "I am unfamiliar with that—"

"What do you want to know, Spock?" McCoy asked brusquely.

His hands rested flat against his legs. He realized he had not moved in several minutes. "You know Jim Kirk very well."

McCoy's eyes narrowed as he studied him. "You want advice on your relationship with Jim?"

Something in the way he said it made Spock feel awkward and ingenuous, like he was a little boy again and his mother was explaining why the other children teased him. He quickly reassessed the situation, assessing if the doctor was going to be of assistance to him or simply playing with him as humans do. When McCoy remained still and attentive, he spoke.

"He is an enigma. He is not like other humans I have encountered."

"That's true enough. Jim is one of a kind." His eyes never wavered from their examination. "So what's the problem?"

"I do not know how to talk to him."

"You seem to do okay."

This was exactly why he avoided conversations with McCoy. Vulcan communication was straightforward and exact. Human communication was deceptive at best. Jim Kirk was one of the first humans he had interacted with who preferred a more candid conversation. However, the doctor, he noticed, tended to probe more than state. "I want him to know that I regard him as a friend."

With a sigh, McCoy set his glass down and leaned forward. "Look, Spock, you don't have to say anything. Jim knows how you feel. Why else do you think he risked his career to haul your ass out of that volcano? It's what friends do for each other. Don't complicate things."

But humans _were _complicated and he had long ago learned that nothing was simple when they were involved. Jim was getting stronger and soon would be back on duty, overseeing repairs and interviewing new crew. The _Enterprise _would be leaving Earth for its next mission and this opportunity to know Jim better would be gone. They would be Captain and First Officer again. He wasn't certain what that meant, but he knew he wanted more.

"I have never had a friend," he said.

"Well now you do." McCoy's voice was heavy with weariness. "He wants to know if something happens you'll be there with him. No matter how illogical it is, no matter what the regs say, friends stand by each other. If you can't do that, then rethink this friendship. Jim isn't a half-way man."

The PADD sounded again.

McCoy glanced at it and swore under his breath. Suddenly, he turned his attention back to Spock. "Did it occur to you that Jim hasn't had many friends in his life, either? I've known him the entire time he was at the Academy and he pissed more people off than I can count, but he never made a friend."

"Other than you," Spock stated.

"Other than me." McCoy paused and let out a pent-up breath. "Don't make any big confessions here, Spock. Jim wouldn't like it."

No, Jim Kirk wouldn't like a big display. He had learned that in the year he had known the man. He had also learned that Jim was loyal – in a single-minded, dogmatic way he would commit himself to a purpose or a person. For whatever reason, Jim Kirk had committed himself as Spock's friend, and the Vulcan knew Jim would give his life for him. Indeed, he already had.

"I shall consider what you have said, Doctor. Thank you for the conversation." He stood and glanced at the PADD. "You seem unusually pre-occupied with the Captain's vitals."

McCoy stood. "His temperature is up a bit."

* * *

Jim remembered the nightmare this time, in startling detail and vivid colors, the blood and the hands that clawed at him – probing, pinching, pushing, taking. He awoke shaking, heart hammering and his skin crawling, covered with sweat. The sheets clung to him and he wanted to kick them off, because even the thin fabric was too much for him to bear, pressing him down. He raised his hand to wipe his forehead, but exhaustion overtook him and his arm gave out. He let it drop next to his aching head like a useless thing, ignoring the tiny tremors that shook it.

Gradually, his heart slowed. He shivered as the air cooled his fevered skin. Of all the images in his mind, he could not recall whose hands had touched him or why. He only knew they were invasive, manipulating his body as if he were a toy to be played with and explored. It was the feel of those hands that haunted him…and the fact that he couldn't remember who they belonged to or why they were on him. Maybe they weren't real at all, but a distorted memory fabricated from his disjointed thoughts.

_Shit._ He had things mixed up in his head. That was it. Bones had warned him that he wouldn't remember much of what had happened after climbing out of the warp core, and not to worry.

"_You'll remember what you need to remember," Bones had said. "Don't work so hard on filling in gaps you don't need to fill."_

It was difficult to stop his mind from piecing together the puzzle, especially since he could so clearly feel those warm hands on every part of his body. His stomach tightened. He liked touch. He was a sensual person and always had been. It wasn't the touch that bothered him. It wasn't the pain. It was something else, something distant and familiar...and wrong. He would not put a name to it.

He stared at the gray ceiling. On the other side of the room were fifty-eight letters waiting to be written. Fifty-eight crewmembers that needed to be recognized. Fourteen had been sucked out through hull breaches. A recovery team had gathered them up a few days after _Enterprise _returned to Earth. It was not a fast way to die. He had stared at the names and tried to place their faces, but he couldn't.

He closed his eyes. Suddenly, the full impact of the evening settled on him. All those crewmembers dead, and he was afraid of his dreams.

_I should get up and write those damn letters._

But my God, he didn't want to. He didn't want to be the captain who had gotten them killed. He knew only too well what it felt like to be on the other side of those letters. He still had the one Starfleet wrote to his mother. It had been a cold comfort to him as a child. How many children would be reading his letter and hating him?

* * *

McCoy pressed the chime to Jim's apartment once. It was 0600 and the sun had been up for half an hour, but San Francisco was still ensconced in fog and would be for hours yet. There was barely enough brightness to light the paths between the buildings. Five years later and he still couldn't get used to the gray mornings when it seemed as if the entire sky touched the ground.

He rubbed a hand quickly over his face. He'd had a lousy night's rest and he knew from the readouts on the bio monitor that Jim hadn't fared any better. Even his best bourbon hadn't helped. The unexpected visit from Spock was only an interruption to his saturnine thoughts. When the Vulcan had left he was faced, again, with the unforgettable images he'd viewed and the reason for his sour mood.

It was his own fault. Scott had warned him not to view the footage. But once he knew of its existence, and had seen the expression on Scott's face, it was impossible for him not to look. _"You're na gonna like it," Scott had said gloomily._ And the engineer had been right. He hated it…and yet he had watched it over and over again, each time more bitterly than the last.

He glanced at the chronometer and keyed in his medical override and waited for authorization. This was base housing, not private sector, and he was still a ranking medical officer with a patient to treat. In the past, he had been very discreet using his override, knowing how much Jim hated the intrusion. Today it was an easy call.

The door hissed open and he stepped inside. Softly lit and silent as a tomb, the apartment was anything but welcoming. He could see the empty, unkempt bed from where he stood, and he scanned the room for Jim.

_Damn it._

He scowled at the sight of Jim hunched over his desk with his head in his hands. The glow from the computer screen lit the blond hair a soft auburn, setting the ends on fire. He walked over to the desk, setting his medical bag on the table before coming to stand next to Jim.

"I hate that you can do this," Jim said.

"I hate having to do it," he said flatly. "Answer your door next time." He studied the bowed head for a moment, noting the uncombed hair before catching a glimpse of the computer screen. "I wish you wouldn't do this now."

"I wish I didn't have to." Jim lifted his head to stare at the screen and the three little words that taunted him: _Dear Mrs. Hillbrand_. "How do you start a letter like this? How do you end it?"

His scowl deepened as he stared at Jim's flushed face and overly bright eyes. How long had Jim been at the desk staring down a duty he would give anything not to have to do? He knew Jim was running a temperature of 38.4, but he still pressed his hand to the fevered forehead and felt the hot skin against his cooler flesh as if hoping his instruments were wrong. Maybe it was just that he needed to touch Jim after what he'd seen last night.

Jim made no attempt to pull away from the touch, his gaze focused on the screen.

"Come on," McCoy said softly and put a firm grip on Jim's bicep. "You need a rest from this." He pulled Jim to his feet and was alarmed at how much of Jim's weight he took as the younger man leaned into him, swaying on his feet. He led Jim to the sofa and sat him down, then went to retrieve his medical bag.

He needed to take two blood samples. One was the required blood draw for Medical, and the other to run a culture to find out why Jim had a fever. He withdrew the extractor and two empty vials.

"Pike told me I'd get people killed," Jim said. "I bragged that I'd never lost a crew member under my command."

"Jim, you can't do this to yourself." He sat on the low table in front of Kirk and took the other man's arm, pushing up the sleeve. "Every commander loses crew in this business, just like every doctor loses patients. It comes with the job."

"He called it blind luck." Jim looked at him as the extractor was pressed to the inside of his arm. "What am I supposed to say to those families, Bones?"

McCoy held the extractor steady as the vial filled with blood. Raising his eyes to meet the brilliant blue ones, he said, "You say what's in your heart, Jim. Nobody is looking to get out of their pain. They just want some acknowledgment. They want to know their loved one mattered."

Jim held still while the vial filled. "What do you say to the families when you lose a patient?"

He shook his head. "It's different for me, Jim. The patient is in my hands. No one ever believes they are going to die when there is a doctor in the room." He remembered every face of every person he'd had to speak to after a failed surgery, and is still amazed at the look of utter disbelief on those faces.

"What do you say?"

He met Jim's eyes with a penetrating gaze. "I say I did my best."

The extractor beeped; the vial was filled. McCoy removed it and quickly snapped in an empty one.

Jim frowned. "Why are you taking two? Does Starfleet Command need that much of my blood?"

"One is for me," he said. "Your fever is higher. That tells me you've either picked up a virus or an infection. I need to know which."

Jim sighed heavily, but held still while the blood draw continued. "They teach you what to say in medical school?"

"They have a class on it."

"Did it help?"

"No." He watched the vial fill.

"You know Starfleet has regulations about writing condolence letters."

"I know. I read them," he said. The extractor beeped again.

Section 5, Para 2: _The letter should show warmth and a genuine interest in the person to whom it is addressed. Avoid unfitting compliments and any gruesome description. _Took Starfleet ten pages to say what any moron with half a brain would know.

The instrument sealed the injection site as he withdrew it. He looked at Jim. "You don't have to write them."

For a long moment Jim said nothing, but the intensity of his gaze revealed more than fever. His eyes were deep water, still and unexplored. He was the only person McCoy knew that could look both young and old at the same time. For an instant, McCoy saw a flash image of the young man as he kicked relentlessly at the misaligned core housings, struggling to stay alive long enough to save his ship.

Finally, Jim spoke. "Yes. I do."

McCoy let out a pent-up breath and rolled the sleeve down. "How's your back?" he asked, digging through his med kit and pulling out a loaded hypo.

"It's fine."

He raised doubting eyes and shot his patient a look that said, _Don't lie to me_.

Jim shrugged. "A little achy."

McCoy gestured to the hypo in his hand. "An anti-emetic. You're eating breakfast." He pressed the hypo to the base of Jim's neck before he could protest, then stood and walked into the kitchen to make breakfast. He had brought a high-protein, high-calorie oatmeal-like grain for Jim to eat. It was easily digestible, if bland to the taste.

McCoy maneuvered easily in the kitchen. Jim wasn't big on cooking, but the apartment came equipped with the basics, enough so he could cook the grains. Within ten minutes he had two bowls filled. He topped them off with rice milk and cinnamon. As he entered the living area, he saw that Jim had curled onto the sofa with a blanket wrapped around him, and was fast asleep.

_Now he goes to sleep_. He set the bowls down. He hated to wake Jim, knowing the younger man needed the sleep, but he wasn't going to let him skip a meal, either. He gently touched Jim's shoulder and gave him a light shake. "Jim."

It took a full minute of coaxing before Jim opened his eyes. The heavy brows drew together and he could see Jim struggling to wake and orient himself.

"Come on. Wake up." He slipped his hand beneath the blanket and pulled on the arm, drawing Jim into a sitting position. "You have to eat."

"I was sleeping," Jim said owlishly.

"You can sleep after you eat." He pushed the bowl of warm grains into Jim's hands and retreated to the nearby chair to eat his own breakfast. During his medical internship, he had spent three months at a specialized recovery unit where he had discovered that patients ate more when others were eating with them. It was one of the reasons he had sent Spock to have dinner with Jim. It was also an excellent opportunity to observe the patient.

He looked at Jim, who sat holding his bowl and blinking the sleep from his eyes. The young man looked like a balloon slowly deflating. "**Eat**."

Jim roused a little more, drawing a shuddering breath. "Most doctors would let their patients sleep."

"Most patients don't spend their nights at their desks when they **should be** sleeping."

"Touché," Jim said and lifted a spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

McCoy ate his breakfast slowly, observing Jim without appearing to observe – a talent he had perfected as a medical doctor. It came in handy with medical-phobic patients like Jim.

They ate in silence, he not wanting to disturb Jim who was at least cooperating about eating. Anyway, there was little to say. After a while, Jim set the bowl down. McCoy gathered the dishes and noted with approval that Jim had eaten almost all of what had been portioned. Returning from the kitchen, he went straight for his medical bag and withdrew a slim case. He opened it and selected two vials, one containing a clear liquid, the other amber-colored. Sitting back on the table in front of Jim, he snapped one of the vials into a hypo.

"This is an antipyretic for your fever," he said and gently pressed the hypo against the base of Jim's neck. Despite his care, Jim tightened his jaw and grimaced with a low groan from the back of his throat. It was a highly-concentrated dose that burned like a son-of-a-bitch. McCoy disliked using the drug, but he didn't like the progression of Jim's fever, and this drug was more aggressive.

"Sorry about that," he said and rubbed the site of injection. "That one kicks a punch."

"Thanks for the heads-up." Jim rotated his neck and shoulders before massaging the spot. "We done? Tir is going to be here in an hour and he won't be too happy if you've incapacitated me."

McCoy noted that Jim's breathing was slightly labored and he had begun to shiver. Before he could grab his scanner, the PADD pinged an alert, drawing his attention. Jim's temperature crept up another half a degree. He took a quick scan. "Change of plans. I'm cancelling PT and you're going to bed."

"Bones—"

"No argument. You can go take a shower while I get a few things." He went into the sleeping area and changed the sheets. "Computer, raise room temperature three degrees."

He grabbed his PADD and punched in orders to have the blood samples picked up and analyzed. He cancelled his morning appointments and was just finishing preparing another pair of hypos when Jim exited the shower wearing only a pair of black boxer briefs that covered the first five inches of his thighs. The monitor stood out on his bare wrist.

McCoy watched as Jim walked toward the bed, his gait slightly halting. He was reminded of how the young man had looked upon his return from Kronos. Jim wore the same weariness and defeated look. Standing all but naked in front of him, McCoy observed the overly thin body, the flushed cheeks and pale skin. Jim looked tired.

Jim's eyebrows rose at the sight of the changed linens. "You cook. You clean…maybe you missed your calling, Bones. Ever consider switching professions?"

"Every time I have to treat you." McCoy handed Jim a clean short-sleeved undershirt without comment, carefully watching him as he put it on. There was no hesitation in the movements, no sign of pain. Still, a deep shiver tore through him and the muscles along his torso and midriff rippled. McCoy stopped Jim from getting another shirt. "Just this, Jim."

Jim frowned. "I'm cold."

"I want access to your arms. I've raised the room temperature and the blankets will warm you up." He stepped aside from the edge of the bed, giving Jim an easy path.

Still, Jim hesitated, standing firm with a scowl. McCoy could see the wheels turning. Jim had a quicksilver mind. He processed information at an incredible rate and made decisions rapidly. He was deciding, McCoy knew, how far to push…and if he could win.

Jim's gaze touched on him. Whatever he saw in McCoy's face, it made him expel a deep sigh. He slipped into bed and reached for the blankets and the promise of warmth.

"Hold on." McCoy prevented Jim from drawing up the blanket. "I need to give you a few shots." He picked up the hypo he'd set on the nightstand. "Turn onto your side. This one needs to go into the muscle."

Turning, Jim made a sound that was a cross between a frustrated growl and the same sound McCoy's small daughter had made when she was unhappy. It brought a smile to his lips. He hooked his fingers into the band of the briefs and pulled them down to expose Jim's left flank. He easily found the ventrogluteal muscle and pressed the hypo home, allowing the contents to empty slowly.

He then changed out the vial to a broad-based antibiotic that Jim could tolerate, just in case the fever was an infection. This one he injected into the carotid artery. When he was finished, he pulled up the blanket around Jim and studied the soft, drawn features. The scowl was still there. "You all right?"

"Tired." Jim's eyes were closing.

"Sleep," McCoy said, putting a hand on Jim's shoulder. He stayed until sleep loosened the frown. When he was certain Jim was into a peaceful rhythm of sleep, he rose to go.


	15. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

It wasn't an infection. It was viral, which was both good and bad. McCoy couldn't treat a virus with antibiotics. It had to run its course. He had been anticipating something like this, given Jim's compromised immune system. He had hoped that Khan's blood would provide enough antibodies to stave off viruses. But then he had to worry about whatever viruses had been hanging around three hundred years ago; viruses to which Jim would have no immunity.

No wonder Starfleet was keeping such tight wraps on the situation, he thought as he stood at attention in the Surgeon General's office.

"You're sure?" the Surgeon General asked, peering up at him from the report.

"You see the results. It's TPV55, a common virus."

The older man looked down at the report and frowned. "His fever's very high for a common virus."

"Not for a newborn."

The grey eyes shot upward. "Are you making a joke, Doctor McCoy?"

"That's what Jim is, basically. He has no immunities to speak of, only what Khan's blood gave him, and I have no idea what they might be. His fever has stabilized, and I'm monitoring him."

"You're going to run a full viral spectrum on him with titers." It wasn't a question.

And it was completely unnecessary. Jim had a common virus, not the damn plague. A complete viral spectrum meant tissue, urine and spinal fluid samples – invasive procedures he would rather not put Jim through now. But he wasn't calling the shots; Starfleet was, and this might be the only way to put the whole issue to bed and get Jim off the radar once and for all.

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed."

McCoy walked out of the office with much more control than he had given himself credit for. He knew being called into the SG's office wasn't going to be pleasant, and he supposed he should be grateful that the Old Man didn't insist on hospitalizing Jim. Still, the titers were overkill.

He punched the call button for the lift and waited impatiently. He was anxious to get back to Jim. He had left a nurse to stay with him during his absence, but the young man's fever was high and McCoy wanted a familiar face there when Jim woke up.

He entered Jim's apartment and noticed the silence. It was early evening and the sun was setting. Kyle Bracken, the nurse he had assigned to stay, had lowered the filters on the row of windows that filled the west side of Jim's apartment. Jim was asleep on the bed in almost the exact position as when McCoy had left him.

Kyle stepped out of the kitchen. The tall, Nordic man had an athletic build and soft eyes that put his patients instantly at ease. He was well-known for managing difficult patients.

"How was he?" McCoy asked the nurse.

"Sleeping most of the time. A little restless, but that's the fever." Bracken walked into the living area and picked up his PADD. "He ate a little. He seems uncomfortable. He said he didn't want anything."

"Did you try some cold compresses?" he asked.

"Yeah…he didn't go for that."

McCoy smiled in spite of himself. Giving Jim a male nurse probably threw the young man for a loop to begin with, but having that male nurse tend him so intimately was definitely pushing his limits.

"Do you need anything else?" Bracken asked.

He shook his head, studying the readings on the PADD. "Thanks. I can take it from here."

As the nurse moved toward the door, he hesitated, and then stopped a few feet from the exit. "He's not what I expected," he said timidly.

McCoy looked up at the man, his eyes sharpening.

"You know…the guy who saved Earth…who hunted down a criminal."

Yeah, he knew.

"I heard he's getting the Medal of Honor." Bracken paused with a small frown. "They say he gave his life for the lives of everyone on his ship."

McCoy remained standing, watching the tall blond with an undecipherable expression. Everything had gone still inside of him. With vivid images, he recalled the video footage, the agonizing climb that Jim had made while his body was flooded with radiation, the pain searing his nerves, never quitting until his ship was safe. Others didn't see him as human, but a hero to be worshipped, a celebrity to be venerated. His sacrifice was a tale to tell at the bar one night – how someone had met the great Jim Kirk.

"He did," McCoy said.

Bracken nodded, suddenly serious and thoughtful. "I can see that." With that, he left.

McCoy wasn't certain what to make of the exchange. Jim was his friend and patient. It was difficult to see Jim as this larger-than-life figure. They had both entered the Academy together, beaten down and indigent. McCoy had been looking to hide; Jim had been looking to find himself. Maybe that was why they had become unlikely friends.

The sound of movement drew his attention toward the bed. He stood by the bed and watched Jim's slow climb to consciousness. It always amazed him how young his friend looked in sleep, released from the responsibilities of command, from the burdens he placed on himself to do better, the recklessness that had driven him into the warp core. McCoy remembered last night….

_Scotty and McCoy stood in engineering, their arms crossed over their chests as they faced the taciturn Vulcan. It was third shift and Enterprise had only a skeleton repair crew. At the moment, engineering was empty, save for the three conspirators who stood around the central computer system._

"_Well?" McCoy prompted._

"_What we are about to do is grounds for court-martial."_

"_We know that."_

"_Aye," Scotty said. "No one knows the vid exists. Ya can erase it from the banks and no one will ever see it."_

_That was why they were there – to erase any possibility of the video getting out into the public. They had all watched it. They had seen…and now they wanted to be rid of it…for themselves and for Jim._

_The Vulcan nodded once and tapped a command into the computer._

Jim wasn't going to change. He was his father's son, willing to risk his life without hesitation. McCoy understood that now. He couldn't get Jim to slow down or to think things through before leaping into the unknown. It would be like asking him to stop breathing. McCoy could only be there for him, to be the sounding board when he need it, to care for him – even when he thought he didn't need it – to put him back together when he had come undone, to simply be there for him as a friend who didn't care if the man succeeded or failed.

He just sat on the edge of the bed until Jim opened his eyes. It took a while for the blue eyes to focus.

"Where's Thor?" Jim asked; his voice rough.

"**Nurse** Bracken left." He grabbed a scanner and ran a quick diagnostic. Blood-pressure was slightly elevated. Kidney function looked good. "You don't like my choice of nurse?"

"What happened to that pretty redhead from the hospital?"

McCoy looked up from his scanner. "Your blood pressure is already elevated. You don't need any more stimulation."

Jim gave him a pained expression. "I hate to break this to you, Bones, but I couldn't do anything about it even if I was stimulated."

"That won't last too long," he said sympathetically. He knew that Jim had had no sex-drive since his injury, but he didn't want the young man to think it was permanent. "I'll warn the female population when you're ready."

Jim smiled. "Don't give them too much of a head start."

McCoy raised both eyebrows in a knowing look and returned his attention to the scanner, focusing on Jim's cardiovascular system. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired."

He nodded. Jim's heart was strong with a steady sinus rhythm. The minor damage done earlier had been successfully repaired with medication and treatment. In another few days he could eliminate one more medication from Jim's list. "Your back feeling okay?"

"It's fine, Bones," Jim said heavily. "Where did you rush off to?"

A smile tugged at the corners of McCoy's mouth. He hadn't rushed off; Jim had slept through the day, losing any sense of time. "Starfleet Medical."

"Bet that was fun." Jim frowned. "What's the prognosis?"

He put the scanner away. "I hate to tell you, Jim, but you have a common virus. Nothing unique or catastrophic. You should be feeling better in the next twenty-four hours. Your cultures look good."

"You say the nicest things." Jim looked at McCoy. "What did they really say?"

He took a breath. "They want some tests run for their own assurance."

"What kind of tests?"

"Nothing major, just samples. We don't have to do them today."

"Are you worried?"

"No." McCoy rested his arms on his knees. "The virus is a good sign; it means everything is normal. I'll continue to administer your medications in the morning, and as long as you don't have any relapses, you can continue PT in another two days."

Jim's eyes lit. "You're cutting me loose?"

"**No**. Don't get too excited. I want another ten kilos on you and you still have to pass Psych before I can think about returning you to half-duty."

"Half-duty?" Jim pushed up on his elbows with a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You're going soft, Bones. Next thing you know you'll be singing to your patients."

"Don't count on it." He looked at his friend. "Do you want something to eat?"

Jim shook his head.

"How about a shower? I called the service. They can change the sheets and freshen up the apartment." He watched Jim closely. "You'll feel better moving around a bit."

"You're making me nervous, Bones. Are you sure nothing happened at Medical?"

"Nothing happened at Medical. I just thought you'd like to feel ordinary for a while."

Jim's expression softened. "I would."

"So, get your skinny ass out of bed," he said rising. "Spock's bringing dinner tonight and you know how fastidious that Vulcan is. Wouldn't want to offend him."

Jim sat up slowly. "I'm not sure you can offend a Vulcan, Bones."

McCoy didn't offer to help Jim as the man stood, albeit unsteadily. It was Jim who put a hand on his shoulder, and they looked at each other, saying nothing, because there was nothing to say. They had each other's back, and the Vulcan's, too. They had been through life and death together, and they were still standing, still friends. McCoy held Jim's gaze and inclined his head as if to say, 'thank you and you're welcome.'

Jim's hand lingered as he walked past McCoy, then fell away with his retreating steps.


End file.
